Bourbon on the Rocks
by Madders Ahatter
Summary: When Sam leaps into a young lighthouse keeper, he learns that the gathering storm on the horizon has more to do with his drunken co-worker than the weather. Unlike the pentology also featured here, this story is post Mirror Image.
1. Introduction

Writer's notes

Thanks as ever to Don, Deborah, Scott and Dean, and everyone at Belisarius Productions for not suing me. I've only borrowed the characters; they remain the property of their creators.

Disclaimer: This story takes place within the "Virtual Seasons" universe of Quantum Leap, and as such references characters that may be the intellectual property of other authors. My sincere thanks to them.

The lighthouse and its exact location are fictional, though the design is a composite of several real ones both in the area and around the world. Details of equipment such as the lens and winching the weight and working conditions like the shift system are based on real life accounts of pre-automated lighthouses.

The "kiss with history" regarding Tylenol capsules and the autumn of '82 refers to the first recorded case of death by product tampering, when seven people died after taking TYLENOL capsules, which had been laced with cyanide.

For details see wiki/Tylenol_Crisis_of_1982

Thanks to the usual suspects for their help and support, you know who you are.

Though it is probably unfair to single anyone out, I'd like to say a special thank you to:

Kumiko: for jamming sessions and helpful wording suggestions when I had writer's block.

Kat: for thorough and very helpful last minute beta reading.

"_Bourbon on the Rocks_" had the honor of being placed 6th in the final ten entries for the International fan-fiction writing contest for The Leap Back Quantum Leap Convention held in L.A. in March of 2009. Sadly I could not attend, but two of my stories were shortlisted, and the other, "_Descent into Panic_" was ultimately placed THIRD! I will be posting that one soon, but meantime it is available as a PDF with the first and second place stories through Al's Place – the best QL site on the web.


	2. Prologue

**Bourbon on the Rocks**

**Prologue**

Adrenalin still pumping from his near death experience at the end of the last dramatic leap, Sam assumed a new identity hyped up and ready for anything. Nevertheless, he hoped he would be able to relax and take stock of the situation before being tested again, either physically or mentally.

First glance suggested his wish might for once be granted. He was on a shallow concrete stair, on a winding staircase hemmed in by rough stone walls, seemingly alone. Looking up, it seemed to go on for ever, though the curvature meant that in fact he couldn't really see very far at all. The same went for looking down.

Sam was struck with a sudden attack of vertigo and, compounded by the unsteadiness he always felt at the start of a leap, he felt himself swaying and in danger of plummeting downward. He made a wild panicked grab at the rough metal railing that twisted up both the inner and outer curve of the narrow stairway. Another surge of adrenalin rushed instinctively from his primitive inner brain and his pulse raced wildly.

"Get a grip." Sam admonished himself, doing just that with his left hand as he took a deep calming breath, trying to restore control to his higher, more rational brain functions. At this point he consciously registered that his right hand was occupied with carrying an oil lamp, by which light he had been examining his surroundings. It was partly the eerie shadows cast by said lamp that had set his vertigo in motion.

"Get that blasted signal going, boy!" a sudden harsh but distant voice came up from below, startling Sam yet again and preventing his heart from resuming a more sedate rhythm.

"Oh, boy!" he gasped, closing his eyes in the hope that the stairwell would cease its wild momentum once he reopened them.


	3. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Having taken a few moments to compose himself, Sam called back, "On my way, sir," deeming it appropriate to defer to the one who'd addressed him as 'boy'. Then he set about climbing the never-ending staircase to discover what awaited him, feeling like Jack scaling the beanstalk to the giant's den.

Not daring to take a leisurely stroll lest he incur the wrath of 'the monster' below, Sam hastened up the stairs as fast as his still shaky legs would carry him. By the time he finally reached the top, they were aching and he was breathless. A closed door met him but thankfully it wasn't locked. The thought of having to go all the way back down for a key before hauling himself back up was almost enough to bring back the vertigo. Sam wished he could relegate the knowledge that he was acrophobic to the part of his brain that was Swiss cheesed. He was not looking forward to the descent one bit.

"I wonder if I can just hide up here 'til the leap is over," Sam asked himself aloud as he went through the door and shut it firmly behind him.

"Since when has Sam Beckett ever hidden from a leap?" a newly arrived Al chastised him.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" Sam, being startled stepped back and collided with the closed door, his relief at not tumbling helter-skelter down the stairwell insufficient to keep his reflexes from going into overdrive again, once more sending his pulse racing faster than a NASCAR driver in pole position.

"A-AL..." he began breathlessly.

"I know, Sam. Why do I have to do that?" Al couldn't help but tease with a little chuckle. "Sometimes you're no fun, buddy."

Huffing crossly, Sam, who was now on a tiny rounded mezzanine that held nothing but an open-stepped vertical wrought iron ladder leading to a circular aperture such as might be found on a submarine, purposefully walked straight through his holographic tormentor and climbed this last few feet to his destination.

What he saw by the dim light of his oil lamp took his breath away again but more in awe than fright this time, despite being over 100 feet above sea level.

"Wow, check this out, Al!" Sam commanded as if there hadn't been the slightest hint of tension between them.

"You expect me to climb that ladder?" Al asked with mock incredulity.

"Just get up here!" came the good-natured retort.

If there had been any doubt, it was now clear that they were in a lighthouse. However, the huge First order Fresnel lens, some fifteen feet tall, with a diameter of six feet – and which resembled nothing so much as some bug-eyed monster mask from a sci-fi movie, did not hold the scientist's fascinated gaze, impressive though it was.

What captivated Sam was the most magnificent sunset imaginable, stretching across the horizon as far as the eye could see in a blaze of red, purple, gold and orange counter-pointing gathering clouds that were blue-black and menacing yet strangely beautiful. The sight was rendered twice as spectacular by the perfect mirror image that played across the water.

Sam stepped across the room to another small doorway and ventured out onto the balcony that went all around the light-tower, completely forgetting to be afraid of the tremendous height or the sheer drop below.

Al had himself centered a short distance from his friend so as not to startle him again and spoke softly, "Quite a sight!" he agreed.

"Isn't that the most glorious sunset you've ever seen, Al?" Sam wanted to know, drinking in the beauty of the scene and finally feeling at peace, his pulse now slow and steady.

Loath as he was to spoil the mood, Al had to tell it like it was.

"I'm afraid it's the calm before the storm, buddy," he warned.

"Literally?" Sam began circumnavigating the balcony, taking in every detail of the landscape around them.

The lighthouse itself was on a small island with steep sheer cliffs plummeting down to a rocky shore all around. Attached to the tower was a small dwelling beside which was a large shed but otherwise there was nothing but a tiny jetty at the foot of a roughly hewn set of some twenty to thirty steps at the lowest point on the island. Next to the jetty was a small boathouse.

The island was linked to the mainland by a wrought iron bridge that looked as if it had seen better days but appeared to be serviceable. In the fading light, Sam could just make out a road on the mainland skirting round a wooded area, presumably to the nearest town some way off. Other than that, there was no sign of human intervention in this wilderness. He could have leapt back to the dawn of time itself.

Out to sea, the need for the lighthouse was all too evident. Several huge patches of harsh black rocks jutted up from the water, encircling the island like a black agate necklace adorning the neck of a wealthy heiress or Hollywood starlet.

Beyond, nothing could be seen but vast empty ocean. This place gave isolation a whole new meaning.

Al 'walked' alongside his friend, also noting the remoteness of the location.

"Real swinging hotspot this eh, Sam?" he observed sarcastically.

"Don't change the subject, Al," Sam commanded, "what's this about a storm? Is something gonna hit those rocks?" Sam gestured out toward where the surf was pounding up froth around the obstacles.

Al knew there was no way to sugarcoat it.

"''Fraid so, Sam. A motor yacht with a family of five on board. All souls lost. Both lighthouse keepers died too, though Ziggy says it was never discovered exactly what happened."

Sam went pale and grabbed the railing, feeling his way back to the doorway to get himself back inside. Al's words had re-awoken his vertigo and suddenly he felt in urgent need of a nice sturdy place to sit down.

As he did so, the voice drifted up from below again, "Why ain't that blasted light on yet?"

Remembering his newly adopted duty and sickeningly aware of Al's dire prediction, Sam hastened to find the controls and light the lantern, sending a four and a half million candlepower beam of intense light spinning out some eighteen miles across the water like a slow searchlight. Of the endangered yacht there was no sign.

"How long do I have, Al?" Sam asked anxiously.

"Don't panic, Sam. It doesn't happen until tomorrow night. Friday, 1st October, 1982, or actually the early hours of Saturday morning to be exact."

"What's the mystery, Al?" As he listened, Sam went over every inch of the lantern room, familiarizing himself with every control from the turntable that rotated the 6000-pound lantern assembly to the fixings that needed to be undone to change the huge incandescent bulb that nestled inside the Fresnel lens. He also made sure he knew exactly which cupboard housed the spares. One cupboard was locked with a small padlock. Sam reasoned that it probably contained more kerosene lamps in case of power failure and possibly a couple of flare guns.

"You've leaped into Ken Barham, twenty years old and working at the Cape Peligro lighthouse just outside Portland, Oregon, as of 25th September, 1982..."

"Back up there, Al. This is my – er his – Ken's first week on the job?"

"Uh-huh," Al confirmed.

"Was it his inexperience that caused the tragedy, Al? Cause I know even less about running a lighthouse than he would." After years of leaping, Sam had learned to pick up new skills in pretty short order but he always hated it when lives depended on him being able to do the leapee's job better than the person themselves.

"Impossible to determine for certain, Sam," Al had to confess. "It seems unlikely to be that simple though," he hastened to reassure his friend. "There's another lighthouse keeper, one... uh... Gilbert Burgess. He's 63 years old and he's worked here for over 40 years. You can't get much more experienced than that!"

Sam was inclined to agree. The leaper had to find out what had gone wrong.

"Can you give me _anything _to go on, Al? Anything at all? Why didn't the yacht see the warning light? It seems pretty unmissable to me!"

Al swallowed before answering. Sam wasn't going to like this bit. He wasn't going to like it at all.

"The light wasn't shining, Sam. Ken was found up here with his skull caved in and the lantern was smashed into hundreds of pieces. Gilbert's body was never found. The lighthouse was automated soon afterwards. They'd been wanting to convert it for a couple of years but the two old guys – Gilbert and his former co-worker, Archie Hudson - wouldn't hear of it."

Then came the part Sam was really going to flip over.

"The best guess the authorities could make was that Ken couldn't stand the seclusion of the job and went crazy, destroying the lamp. Gilbert tried to stop him and accidentally killed him in the struggle. Then he must have gone out into the storm to try and save the folks on the yacht, but he never launched the boat so he was probably swept over the cliffs by a freak wave."

As logical as it sounded, Sam's gut wasn't buying it. His instinct had rarely been wrong, so he went with it.

"It's too simple, Al. I leap in - _don't_ go crazy - and the light shines out to save the yacht. It doesn't feel right. When did you ever know a leap be that straightforward?"

Al shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Sam had a point.

"If Ken cracked after less than a week," Sam pressed on, "what was he doing in the job in the first place?"

Al gestured to one of the windows, indicating that Sam should check out his reflection against the now darkened night sky beyond.

The image wasn't as clear as a mirror, but detailed enough for him to see what Al was getting at.

Ken was over 6ft tall and lanky with unruly thick brown hair and hazel eyes. The thing that drew the eye though was none of these things, nor the blemishes from a recent explosion of severe acne. The overwhelming feature that defined Ken's appearance was a huge port-wine stain birthmark that stretched across most of the left side of his face, splashing around his eye and over his forehead, blotching over his cheek and edge of his nose and dribbling down from the corner of his mouth to discolor his neck. Without it, he could have been handsome, but it resembled a murderer spattered with the blood of his victim and as such gave him a sinister appearance that would make small children run from him screaming for their mothers.

Sam could well imagine the cruel taunts the young man would have had to endure during his school years and understood the heartache that might lead him to hide himself away from a world in which being 'different' held nothing but torment.

"That explains why he's here, Al; I can see that. Yet it's all the more reason why he wouldn't let the isolation get to him. This place is a refuge for him, a safe haven."

"I hope you cleaned that lens this afternoon, boy!" the less than friendly voice had quite a range to it for, though it was no longer loud by the time it reached Sam's ears, it got through clear enough.

Sam had no idea if Ken had cleaned the lens or not, but it had looked shiny and sparkly enough when he'd gone to light the lantern. It was far too bright to look at directly now.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Burgess." Sam dared to assume.

An indistinct grumble didn't quite make itself understood but the tone was definitely complaining.

"Maybe it was old grumpy guts that drove Ken to the crazies." Al gestured downward with his cigar to indicate the other occupant of the lighthouse.

"In which case, let's hope I can remain immune," sighed Sam, taking one last look around to make sure all was in order before picking up his oil lamp from where he'd carefully placed it and steeling himself for the long winding descent.

"Yeah," Al chuckled, but mirthlessly. He turned away before Sam could see the look of panic that had painted itself onto his features.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sam deliberately _didn't_ count the steps as he went down the spiral staircase. He didn't want to think about how far it was. He kept his eyes on those steps immediately in front of him as if they were all he had to navigate.

A part of him was afraid that he only had a short time to work out what had gone wrong and prevent it from happening again. A more immediate part of him was grateful that he'd be gone in a couple of days and then never have to negotiate the never-ending staircase again.

He was none-too-pleased therefore to find out that the two men worked shifts of 6 hours on, four hours off (with an overlap of an hour at each changeover when both men were on duty) and each shift involved a trip to the top of the tower to hand crank the clockwork drive which controlled the rotation of the lens. The mechanism was powered by a weight that traveled the interior height of the tower and needed winding every four hours. Sam didn't want to think about how many trips that would necessitate.

**QLHQ**

**The Waiting Room**

Fortunately, Ken's Swiss cheesing had been minimal and, far from freaking out, he'd seemed positively thrilled to find himself in Sam's aura. He was only too happy to cooperate with his 'captors'. He'd been able to impart quite a lot of useful information. What Ken couldn't do was tell Dr. Beeks much about his colleague Gilbert Burgess. "We haven't talked much and when we have it's mostly been about the job," he informed her, "Gil isn't exactly the chatty type."

Nevertheless, Ken did inform them that he'd replaced Gil's previous partner, an old man called Archie Hudson who'd died of a heart attack aged nearly 80. Like Gil, he'd spent almost his entire adult life tending the light and the two had obviously been very close. Gil resented the 'young whipper-snapper' taking the old man's place and was pretty hostile. "He makes me call him Gil, because Archie used to call him Bert so I'm not allowed to. Where's the sense in that?"

"Why not Mr. Burgess?" Verbena wanted to know. It seemed as if the senior lighthouse keeper would have been one to insist on formality and respect from the young man.

"I called him that for the first three or four days," Ken replied, "but it seemed to irritate him. Practically everything I said or did irritated the old fossil, if I'm honest. I couldn't get anything right. Nothing I did was good enough."

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

Al had passed all this information on while Sam had been descending the stairs. The leaper was not only grateful for the data, he was glad of the distraction. Then, having nothing more helpful to offer, Al had called up the Imaging Chamber door and took his leave, wishing Sam luck. Sam felt he was going to need it – in spades.

The door at the base of the tower led straight into a large tiled hallway with another door on each wall. To the right was a kitchen while to the left a door led to the outside world. Straight ahead was a small lounge beyond which were two tiny bedrooms, resembling the cells occupied by monks, separated by a compact bathroom. There wasn't much in the way of creature comforts.

Sam had entered the lounge from the lobby at more or less the same moment Gilbert came out of his bedroom, for which Sam sent up a silent prayer of thanks, having no wish to anger the other man by intruding on his personal space. Burgess had hastily put his hand into the inside of the body-warmer he wore, as if hiding something. Sam pretended not to notice.

Pretty soon, Burgess allowed that Sam had done all the necessary jobs and they both sat down in the two vast worn leather armchairs that took up a large part of the lounge, with huge mugs of strong steaming hot tea that Sam had been instructed to make. There was no television on the wall in front of them, just an old fashioned wireless radio on the mantelpiece over the open fire that cracked in the grate. On the opposite wall was a dark wood dining table with two wooden chairs. A wooden desk stood stout against the sidewall, supporting a two-way radio constantly switched on to allow them to listen to messages from local shipping as well as communicate with the mainland. Next to the desk was a tall bookcase. The place looked like time had stood still for the past forty years and Burgess with it.

Sam soon discovered for himself how irascible Gilbert Burgess was. Getting any conversation out of him made getting blood from a stone seem as easy as squeezing a sponge.

Now it was fully dark, it was starting to get chilly. Sam was content to warm his hands by the fire and relax with his tea. When Sam used the temperature as a way to engage in banter with the old man, however, he soon got a curt, "Quit yer yapping, you young whelp!" and a huffy turning aside.

Feeling like a whipped pup, Sam didn't press for further conversation and they sat in stony silence for a long while. It was starting to feel less unlikely that Ken had cracked when faced with this hostile atmosphere. Yet quitting his job would have been a simpler and less dramatic solution than vandalizing the lantern. It still didn't entirely make sense.

Sam gasped at the sudden thought that maybe Ken's death hadn't been an accident while trying to prevent the damage. What if it had been an enraged retribution meted out by an incensed Gil for the destruction of his beloved lamp? The leaper comforted himself with the thought that it wouldn't come to that since Sam had no intention of breaking the lamp in any way.

His instinct told him that if Ken had originally damaged the lamp and Gil had been too old and infirm to prevent him, it would have been more logical for him, Sam, to leap into Gil. That conclusion led Sam's mind to explore other possibilities that he was not yet ready to accept since they flew in the face of the available evidence. Nevertheless, he was on full alert.

A short time later, when both men's cups were empty, Gilbert heaved himself to his feet, looked at the clock on the wall and gestured toward the bedrooms. "Get off to sleep, boy. And mind you don't laze in bed all night. You're back on duty at 11.30 on the dot, you hear?"

"Yes, sir!" answered Sam smartly, surprised to hear the old guy string so many words together all at once. He also appreciated how he'd been able to hear Gil from the top of the tower. Even standing next to Sam, his voice was a full volume boom, as if he was practically deaf and had to shout to hear himself speak. Sam decided he should have Al check on that. The last thing he needed was to compound the problems with miscommunication.

"Told you, boy, it's Gil," snapped Burgess, penetrating Sam with a stare like a laser that could slice through lead as if it were butter.

Sam couldn't help but squirm beneath the stern gaze, and stammered, "S-sorry, Gil," scuttling away to his room before he did anything to incur further wrath. The glare followed him and Sam could feel that Gil was resentful of his usurping Archie's room.

Sam didn't get much sleep in his allotted four hours; his mind was too active churning round possibilities and wondering how he could avert the impending disaster. He felt strongly that the key lay in getting these two men talking and hopefully eventually developing a friendship. It seemed like a bigger uphill struggle than climbing the lighthouse tower. Gil certainly had issues.

Sam also wondered if the surreptitious hand gesture had been an attempt to hide the fact that the old man was in pain. Perhaps he too had a heart condition and was afraid he would meet the same end as Archie Hudson. Not that he was likely to fade into retirement. After all, old Archie had stuck with the job despite advanced years.

Sam marveled that two 'old codgers' had been able to keep up with the rigors of the job for so long. For a start, winching the weight every four hours was heavy and strenuous work, not to mention the mountaineering! Gil should have been glad to have someone like Ken who was young and fit to take on the more physical aspects of the work.

Nobody could blame Burgess for grieving the loss of a life-long friend and it was unreasonable to expect him to become bosom buddies with the new guy overnight. Even so, Gil needed to stop seeing Ken as trying to 'replace' Archie in anything other than the professional role and appreciate the young man as an individual in his own right with his own merits and strengths to offer.

How Sam was supposed to initiate such a turn-around in just over 24 hours was currently as unfathomable to the leaper as the vast Pacific Ocean outside.

It was with a heavy heart as well as heavy eyes that Sam hastily got dressed and went to find his new colleague for the start of the next shift.


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

**Thursday, 30****th**** September, 1982**

**Just before midnight**

Burgess wasn't anywhere in the living quarters, so with a resigned sigh Sam lit one of the oil lamps stored in the lobby and began the long trek up the stairs to the lantern room.

He didn't call out on his way up, initially since he needed all his lung capacity for the exertion, then in part to avoid startling his colleague but more than anything so as not to provoke an angry retort.

Reaching the mezzanine, Sam was surprised not to hear sounds of the other man walking around. He immediately became concerned that his hunch about a heart condition could have been right and Burgess had collapsed while trying to winch the weight.

Sam scrambled up the metal stepladder and into the lantern room, shielding his eyes from the brilliance of the beam to see where Burgess was. At first he couldn't see any sign of the old timer but when he walked around the huge lens to the other side of the lantern room Sam noticed that the door to the balcony was open. He hurried out, fearful now that, seeking fresh air having felt unwell, Burgess had passed out and toppled over, plummeting to his death on the rocks below. That could well explain why Burgess' body had never been found.

Moments later, Sam was relieved to catch sight of him at last. Burgess had indeed passed out but when Sam hastened over and carefully turned the old man onto his back to examine him, the empty whiskey bottle that rolled out from under him told Dr. Beckett that he wasn't dealing with myocardial infarction.

Sam still checked the unconscious man over for signs of injury, relieved to find nothing but a small bump on the side of his head, probably garnered from the railing as he descended into his drunken stupor. Satisfied that Burgess was not in urgent need of medical attention, Sam carefully dragged him inside the lantern room and used his own body-warmer to make a pillow, letting the man sleep it off in a corner while the locum lighthouse keeper set-to winding the weight into its uppermost position, and checking that everything was running smoothly.

Sam hoped that Gil would wake in due course and make his own way down to bed. Burgess was not a big man - in fact he was rather lean, even wiry - yet the prospect of having to fireman's lift him down that winding staircase made Sam go weak at the knees.

**QLHQ**

**The Waiting Room**

Verbena Beeks was used to leapees and their changing moods.

It was quite common for them to be panicked and withdrawn at first, even hostile. It was also normal that once she had reassured them that they were in no danger, they relaxed and opened up a bit more, so far as they were able.

Ken Barham displayed these typical traits but never had she encountered them in such dramatic contrast before.

To say the Ken who had first appeared in the waiting room was shy and scared would be gross understatement. She found him curled up tight in a ball under the bed with his head in his hands, like a swan sleeping with its head tucked under its wing. When she finally got him to say his name, he spoke timidly, almost apologetically, and wouldn't look at her. He tried to hide in the shadows but the room was too well illuminated to afford him any.

It had taken a great deal of coaxing to get him to relax and drop his defensive posture. When he'd finally turned to face her, a curious thing had happened.

Verbena continued to talk to him as if nothing had changed, which really it hadn't. Yet Ken looked at her in amazement as if he'd been expecting a huge reaction. He told her that he had. He was used to stares and gasps and cruel comments. She was either a fantastic actress whose professional training allowed her to mask her true feelings, he said, or else she was severely short sighted and should have her glasses on.

"Why? It isn't as if you have two heads," Verbena replied, smiling at the thought of a second head suddenly appearing from behind his left ear like a conjurer's coin.

"Just look at me!" Ken insisted, indicating his face.

That's when Verbena confessed she couldn't see him and explained about exchanging aura's with Sam. She showed him Sam's reflection in the polished table that doubled as a bed, warning him that what he saw would seem strange but that there was no need for alarm.

Ken looked. He looked again. He couldn't stop looking.

"Strange? Alarm? Are you kidding me? It's wonderful. It's better than wonderful. It's amazing. This guy is good looking - a bit on the old side - but he's got a good, kind face, and he's _handsome_! I'd _love_ to have a face like this."

It was at this point that Verbena had learned about his disfigurement. Now, she learned all about him, for he was no longer shy and retiring. He had undergone a complete personality change. He was confident, outgoing and engaging.

It was as if he had been hiding behind a mask and now that it had been stripped away, the real Ken was coming out.

Verbena had not been at all surprised to hear of the taunts he'd been subjected to at the hands of his classmates. What _had_ astounded her was the reaction of one of his teachers, who'd proposed the school play should be 'The Phantom of the Opera', and that Ken was a natural for the lead she'd seen played so well by Lon Chaney in the 1925 movie. Verbena usually had the utmost respect for fellow professionals and - in her experience - the vast majority of teachers were caring, wonderful people. This one was a disgrace. Her heart went out to Ken.

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

**The Lantern Room**

**Friday, 1****st**** October, 1982**

**1am**

Sam had finished all the necessary jobs to be sure the lighthouse was in good working order. He'd taken a turn around the balcony to check on the state of the weather, and the lack of shipping in the area. He'd found another whiskey bottle out there, half empty, which he'd "accidentally" knocked over the edge, out of temptation's way. It had saddened Sam's heart to discover it for it meant that this was no isolated incident in which Gil had just gone overboard on 'a nip to keep out the cold'. The man had an alcohol problem.

This made Sam's alternate theories on what may have happened seem more likely and he would have to be very careful how he handled the situation.

In all this time, Gil had slumbered, emitting an occasional snort or mumble and shifting position a few times. Sam felt certain he'd not sustained any serious injury from his fall but that didn't mean his health was not in danger, both long term and short term.

At this stage, the normal routine would have been to return to the lounge and man the radio for the rest of the shift unless circumstances required other action. Sam did not want to leave Gil on his own so he went to check on the insensible form before pacing the lantern room, lost in worried thought.

This was how Al found him some twenty minutes later just as Sam was checking on Gil again. Though the old man seemed peaceful enough, it was possible that his body could at any time decide to expel the excess alcohol, whereupon he would be in danger of choking to death on his own vomit.

Al saw his friend bending over the prostrate form of the old lighthouse keeper and wasn't sure what he was seeing. The idea of Ken going crazy had been preying on his mind and Sam's comment about immunity dredged up vivid memories of previous leaps when his time traveling friend had mind-merged with the host, most alarmingly with Lee Harvey Oswald.

These nightmare recollections had led the Admiral to decide to check up on his friend and he was not reassured by what met his eyes. What if Ken's craziness had already consumed Sam and he'd killed the old man before Gil could get in the fatal blow that stove in Ken's skull?

"Sam?" Al began cautiously, wanting to be sure his friend, not the wild man, was in control of the consciousness he was addressing.

Sam was intent on his examination and didn't immediately register Al's arrival, giving the hologram further cause for concern.

"What's going on, buddy?" Al queried casually, careful not to let his alarm creep into his voice; he didn't want to spook Sam into doing anything rash. 'Or anything _else_ rash,' he thought to himself.

Still not getting a response, Al tried a little louder, "Sam, what'cha doing?"

Sam heard him that time and visibly jumped at the sudden intrusion to his troubled thoughts. "Seriously, Al, get a bell or something, will ya?" he snapped, turning to confer a withering stare on his friend.

"Hey, chill out, Sam!" Al was still not entirely reassured, though the comment was pure Sam. Al decided to tackle his concern head on, "You're not going stir crazy up here, are ya? The altitude isn't getting to you?" He shot an anxious glance at the endangered lantern.

All at once, Sam realized where Al's mind had been going. While hurt at his friend's lack of trust in him, Sam was still able to appreciate what had given rise to the hologram's fears. Sam had garbled memories of times when he'd lost control to his host, sometimes helpfully as with Jules but mostly with the scariest consequences. It was not an experience he was in any hurry to repeat and he was glad that it was not as likely in this scenario as Al obviously dreaded it might be.

"Don't panic, Al. I'm as sane as I ever was – and that is _not_ an excuse for one of your cutting comments!" He put up a forbidding finger, warning Al to keep his quips to himself. Al returned his best 'as if I would' look, though they both knew he often would and did.

For once, Al didn't find the situation cause for jesting. He was too relieved.

Sam then proceeded to explain the condition he had found Gil in and his suspicion that it may in fact have been the faithful old keeper who had originally done the damage in a drunken funk.

"Surely not, Sam. The lighthouse is Gil's life. I can't see him destroying it."

"Sober, I'd agree with you one hundred percent, Al. But we both know full well how violent the booze can make some people and how irrational."

"Low blow, pal," Al turned away, hurt and offended by Sam's uncharacteristically insensitive comment. He studied the tip of his cigar, as he was wont to do when emotions he tried so hard to bury bubbled to the surface.

"Huh?" Sam was genuinely perplexed for a moment. Then the holes in his Swiss cheesed memory abruptly filled in. Al attacking a vending machine with a hammer, Al drowning in the depths of alcoholism and the long struggle back to sobriety. A struggle that Sam had helped him win.

"No, Al... Oh God! I'm so sorry, no, I didn't mean..."

"Didn't you?" Al rounded on him then, ready to let go a bitter rant born of anger and shame, until he saw Sam's expression. His friend was clearly crestfallen at having unwittingly opened up old wounds. Al calmed down at once.

"You really _didn't _mean it, did you?"

"Of course, not, Al!" Sam was in his turn upset that his friend thought he could stoop so low, "I'd _never_ throw something like that back in your face that way. Damn this Swiss cheese brain." Sam took a step toward his friend, remorse written in every line of his face. "I feel awful now, I'm _really _sorry, Al..."

Al shrugged and made a dismissive gesture, "Accepted, buddy, don't sweat it."

"Insert foot here," Sam pointed to his mouth, and they both laughed, the tension broken.


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"What you laughing at, stupid boy?" Gil had come round unnoticed and barked angrily at the new kid.

Sam started and turned, embarrassed, to his coworker. "Nothing, Gil."

"Insolent pup," growled the old man, clambering to his feet. Sam moved forward to help him.

"Keep yer hands to yerself." Burgess huffed, then staggered and would have fallen had Sam not steadied him.

"What's been goin' on?" Gil looked about him in confusion.

Sam decided this was not the time for a confrontation.

"I found you on the balcony. I think you must have... uh, _tripped_ and hit your head. You may have a slight... um... concussion." Sam stopped himself from saying 'hangover' just in time.

"What would you know?" Gil snapped, but he put his hand to his head and, after a moment's thought, evidently decided it was a good cover story.

"Ay, maybe I have at that."

"Things are pretty quiet at the moment. If you'd like I'll do a double shift so you can get some rest, take a couple of Tylenol for your headache." Sam offered, hoping Gil would sleep off his hangover and be sober and more rational when he resumed his duties.

"Good idea, Sam," agreed Al. "Though make sure they are tablets not capsules. This is the fall of '82 after all, even if you're _not_ in Chicago."

Sam's Swiss cheese memory meant that he didn't recall the incident to which Al was referring, so he just shrugged as if to say, 'Okay, if you say so'.

"Zig says there's no danger to shipping 'til early Saturday, so you can even take a nap yourself. I can keep an eye on things for you. Then you'll be fresh for the danger time."

Sam nodded subtly to show he'd heard and understood. That just left Gil to convince. At first it looked as if he was going to take offense and argue the point, but as he tried to shrug Sam away he stumbled again. He was definitely still 'three sheets to the wind'.

"Maybe I will," he finally allowed grudgingly, "but you're to wake me if there's any problem, y'hear?"

Sam was increasingly convinced that Ken had been innocent of any vandalism - in which case the problem was most likely to arise _after_ Gil awoke rather than before. With Al there to help keep watch, Sam would stay on duty for the full twenty-four hours if he thought that would solve the problem. For now, he'd just play it hour by hour.

"Sure, Gil," Sam outwardly agreed with the old man as he led him down the stairway, going in front in case Gil lost his footing.

**A short time later**

Gil had gone meekly to bed and was soon snoring loudly.

Sam went through to the kitchen to make himself a hot cup of strong black coffee, both to keep out the chill of the night and to help him keep alert.

"What am I gonna do, Al?" Sam took his coffee into the lounge and sat by the radio, though he knew there would be no SOS tonight. "There's no way I can dry him out in a day. Even if I did, who's to say he wouldn't just get drunk again next week or next month after I've leaped out." Sam stared dejectedly into his coffee cup. He hated this sort of leap, when faced with such big life-changing issues and so little time to tackle them.

"You've dealt with drunks before, Sam," Al reminded him and when Sam shot him a guilty look, he added, "aside from me, that is." There was no rancor in his voice now; Al genuinely wanted to help. "The Priest for one, Father Mack. He felt guilty about that kid who died, yeah? Remember, too, that time you understudied John O'Malley in 'Man of La Mancha'?"

Immediately, images of an inebriated actor falling from a set of stage steps came to Sam's mind. Images of a certain piano teacher quickly superseded them and Sam had to force himself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

"As I recall, one option we considered that time was to get him so drunk he couldn't go on stage," Al pointed out. "What do you reckon, Sam? Get Gil so soused he sleeps through the storm?"

"I don't think so, Al. That's still only a temporary measure. I need to make sure this tragedy, or one just like it, _never_ happens. A quick fix for tonight isn't going to cut it. Besides, I don't want to be responsible for him dying from alcohol poisoning."

"Good point, Sam, but I really think we need to concentrate on winning the main battle before we worry about the war, buddy. Remember, one crisis at a time."

"Yeah, right." Sam agreed, though he still didn't sound totally convinced. He rested his chin in his hands and looked dolefully over toward his friend.

"What's with you, Sam? You don't seem to have your mind or your heart in this leap; you're acting like you're beaten before you start and that's not the Sam Beckett I know." Al was seriously concerned. The last leap had taken its toll on Sam, as had a number lately. He'd been through the mill physically and emotionally. Normally, a new leap meant a new slate but it was as if despite his having rescued so many, Sam's failure to save his previous host's life, and his own leap-induced narrow escape from a gruesome death had left his spirit in some sort of limbo.

Sam didn't try to deny Al's assessment. "I dunno, Al I just feel like, what's the point, y'know? For every ten people I save there's another hundred needing help. No matter how much I do, it's never enough."

"It's enough for the ten you save, Sam. " Al pointed out. "Remember the story of the starfish on the beach?"

Sam looked at him blankly, so Al related the apocryphal story of the girl who was spotted throwing stranded starfish back into the ocean, one at a time. The beach was inundated with thousands and she was saving a mere handful. As fast as she threw them in, the tide washed more ashore. "Why bother, what difference does it make?" she was asked. "It makes a difference to the ones I throw back," she replied.

"I _try_ to feel good about the people I help, Al, to feel I have a right to be proud of making a difference..."

"You have, and you should be," cut in Al, "You're an honest to goodness grade 'A' hero, buddy."

"Maybe so, Al." Sam struggled to explain what it was he was feeling. He wasn't entirely sure himself. "But I'm so very tired. I guess I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed. I sometimes feel like I'm trying to save the whole world single-handed and it's too big a job for one man, Al. Not to mention I rarely even get a single day off to kick back and relax. I leap headlong from one catastrophic life to the next. The pace is relentless; you must feel that too."

Al nodded; he felt it all right. He was only observing and sometimes it felt like he didn't get a minute to catch his breath. They certainly led a stressful existence. And while Al could take solace in Beth's arms and talk out the trials of the day, Sam just hurtled from emergency to emergency. It wasn't surprising he was feeling the strain.

"Hearing about old Archie, I just had visions of myself leaping from life to life 'til I'm in my 80s and drop dead from a heart attack, _if_ somebody doesn't kill me first. I'm starting to think I'm _never_ gonna get home and have a life of my own. Is it really _that _selfish to want to be me for a while?" Sam sighed, a deep heartfelt sigh.

"Of course it's not selfish, buddy. It's only natural. If it were up to me I'd have you leap home in a New York minute." Al would have given almost anything to ensure that outcome. He tried to picture it and was surprised by the scenario that greeted his imagination.

"Knowing you though, buddy, after a few days down time, you'd be itching to get out there helping people again. I can't see you settling for pipe-and-slippers retirement and let the world go hang."

"I guess you're right, Al. Still, the few days down time sure sound appealing right now though."

"I'm sure they do, buddy. I guess the gamble would be not knowing if you _could_ get back into the 'better life business' once you came home."

Sam looked at Al as if a light-bulb had just gone on in his brain. "I don't think I ever thought it through that thoroughly," he confessed, "that going home might be so final. It's been my goal for so long; I haven't stopped to consider what would follow, what I'd _want_ to do with the rest of my life, long term. I guess leaping would be a tough act to follow."

"If it were that easy to control the process, Sam, you could pop home after every leap."

"Say, wouldn't _that_ be something?" Sam looked at his friend wistfully for a moment and then gave him a crooked half smile. "Thanks, Al. If I were a woman you'd probably be saying I was having a hormonal moment. I think I just needed a bit of perspective."

"Any time, buddy. You've got more right than most to need to sound off once in a while. Remember, even Christ himself said he shouldn't be grudged a bit of luxury and that there would _always_ be poor people in need. So don't beat yourself up, okay?"

"No need. Plenty of other people seem to be queuing up to do that!" Sam countered but not bitterly now. He gave a little laugh.

Al smiled, "That's more like the Sam I know!"

Sam drained his coffee cup and put it down purposefully.

"Oh well, back to... what did you call it? Oh yeah, the 'better life business'. I like that, Al."

Al inclined his head and smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment.

"Well, come on, business partner, where do I start?" Having been so down in the mouth a short while before, Sam now seemed positively enthused. He rubbed his hands together to show he was ready for the challenge.

"You start by removing temptation, Sam. We go on a bottle hunt. Gil's bound to have loads stashed away and I know _all_ the best hiding places."

Neither needed to comment on how Al came to have such knowledge.

They started right where they were, by checking the back of the desk drawer. Sure enough, a partially empty bottle of bourbon was tucked away in the dark recesses behind various innocent items such as a book of tidal charts, a local map and a list of radio frequencies for the local authorities.

Another was to be found at the bottom of the woodpile by the fire.

In all, four bottles were retrieved from the lounge area. Sam took them through to the kitchen and poured them down the sink. Then, Al helped him find the five more that were hidden about the kitchen, plus the one that had been left in a cupboard in plain view.

While Sam was disposing of them, Al told him that Ziggy had managed to discover that crates of bourbon were regularly delivered to the lighthouse by the local liquor store, along with monthly food supplies from the grocery store and other essentials. They were packed into the shed outside and brought into the house when needed. The two old men had rarely left their island for a trip to town, preferring to have everything brought in to them.

It appeared that the quantity of bourbon ordered had increased over the past couple of months. The owner of the liquor store had erroneously assumed that a temporary replacement had been found while Archie had been in hospital fighting the losing battle for his life - in fact Gil had been adamant that while there was the slightest chance that Archie would return to duty, no other soul was to set foot in 'their' lighthouse. The tradesman didn't question the increase in the order, naturally. He knew they liked to stock-pile in case rough weather prevented deliveries and besides, more business meant more money.

Al and Sam both came to the conclusion that the old men had 'enjoyed a tipple' nightly over the years but probably in moderation at first. As Al pointed out, there was precious little else to do in such an isolated spot other than share a sociable drink by the fire on a cold winter's evening. Gil would probably claim that he could hold his liquor, no problems.

Once Archie had been taken ill, however, Gilbert Burgess had turned to the bottle to replace the companionship he'd had with his senior. His drinking had probably escalated fairly rapidly and was now totally out of hand, as evidenced by the surprising number of bottles secreted around the place that Al was leading Sam to. Surprising to Sam that was. Al was pretty confident of Sam finding a bottle or two in all the places he led him to. He knew the signs and he knew all the dodges. This guy Burgess had it bad.

After an hour or so of carting armloads of full and part full bottles to the kitchen sink for disposal, Sam was getting disheartened again.

"How many _more_ can there be, Al?" he asked, thinking that in one way it was a wicked waste to be disposing of so many dollars worth of liquor. On the other hand, the thought haunted him that if a drunken Gil _had_ smashed the lantern in the original history, then Ken's fatal injury had probably been received while trying to stop him. Sam was anxious to make sure that he changed history for the better for both of them. Not to mention the family in the motor yacht.

In the end, the sheer volume of alcohol was far too much to pour into the sewage system. Four bottles found in the lantern room were therefore locked in the flare cupboard and Sam pocketed the key. He did the same with the key to the shed, where six and a half crates still lay in readiness. As Al put it, "the guy had enough bourbon here to float a battleship!"

Ken's room had been the only one to come up booze free, as they'd anticipated. Al had still insisted that Sam search it thoroughly though, just in case – especially since it had until recently been old Archie's room.

The only place they hadn't raided for contraband was Gil's bedroom. Sam felt it would be a riskier strategy to invade the irascible man's inner sanctum than to leave a bottle or two still available to him.

Al reckoned it may be more than that but agreed that trying to get them out could escalate hostilities to an unacceptable degree. They were fortunate that Gil had continued to slumber throughout Sam's lengthy and methodical search.

By the time he'd finished, it was nearly 4am and Sam felt drained. He made himself another coffee, put a couple more logs on the fire, and settled into the comfortable and comforting arms of the leather chair. Reassured by Al's promise that nothing serious was imminent and with the security in knowing that he'd stay around to watch the leaper's back, Sam drifted into a troubled sleep.


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**.

**Friday, 1****st**** October, 1982**

**8.20am**

"Sam?" Al leaned over the armchair where Sam was curled up asleep.

The leaper didn't respond. Al felt mean waking him. Sleep was often a luxury Sam didn't get to indulge in on a leap and his tossing and turning in the chair showed that this had not been the most peaceful of slumbers. He'd had precious little chance to recharge his batteries.

"Rise and shine, buddy! Up and at 'em!" Al coaxed.

Gradually, Sam surfaced, rubbing his eyes, then his neck and back, which were stiff from the awkward position in which he'd been sleeping.

"What's going on, Al?" he mumbled once he was more conscious than not.

"The sun's been up well over an hour, Sam. It's been a dull dreary morning but it's brightening up, so you need to go up and switch the lantern off."

Reluctantly, Sam stood up and stretched out the kinks in his aching muscles.

"Time to get on the crampons and fetch the pitons and carabiners, is it?" he jested, showing his affection for the spiral staircase had not increased one single iota with the new dawn.

Sam spent the next hour going through the regular routine of the lighthouse, which he'd soon become conversant with.

Then, having showered and changed his clothes, he rustled up breakfast for himself and then for Gil, and went to see if the other man was ready to start a new day.

With a tray in one hand, containing a plate of his special eggs à la Beckett, several slices of hot buttered toast and a mug of hot strong tea, Sam tentatively knocked on Gil's bedroom door. Getting no immediate response, Sam hesitated, wondering if it would be better to let Gil sleep on. Then he fretted that the old man may indeed have succumbed to alcohol poisoning and be even now lying comatose and close to death.

Knowing that if his fears proved groundless, he would antagonize Gil by going into his private room, Sam played his ace and sent Al in to check on him.

Moments later, the hologram returned to report that Gil was awake and Sam should do his utmost to get him out. Burgess had recovered a bottle hidden in the bedroom and was rapidly heading for the bottom of it.

This was not the action of a man preparing to take up his duties in a few minutes, especially not such responsible duties as operating a lighthouse. It seemed that Gil no longer felt the same pride in his work that he'd exhibited over the previous 40 odd years.

"Gil, I've made you some breakfast," Sam called, knocking on the bedroom door again, more forcefully this time. He tried to sound casual and relaxed but, having heard Al's news, that was far from how he was feeling.

Sounds of shuffling as Gil hid his bottle filled Sam's ears. Gil was soon at the door, unshaven, disheveled, bleary eyed and with enough bourbon on his breath to make Sam feel intoxicated just sharing the same air.

Gil took one look at the tray of food, put his hand to his nose to indicate he didn't appreciate the appetizing aroma, and then pushed it and Sam out of the way, dashing for the bathroom. Graphic sounds of vomiting soon confirmed to Sam that Gil wouldn't be partaking of a hearty breakfast.

Sam looked from Al to the still open bedroom door, debating whether or not he should try to clear the booze out while Gil was otherwise occupied.

"On balance, Sam, I'd say leave it. A man so far in the grip of the daemon drink that he's hitting the bottle that hard at this time in the morning is gonna get his hands on some booze somewhere, even if he has to break down the shed door to get it. Better if he sticks to what he's got in there. You don't have time to sober him up fully and I don't think you have time to reason with him either; he's not ready to be receptive. Trust me, I know the signs. I'm afraid all you can do is play on his being 'ill' and persuade him to stay off duty. It's gonna be a long day pal."

Sam nodded in agreement and took the breakfast tray back to the kitchen. Once at a safe distance and so free to talk, he formulated a game plan with Al, whereby the Observer would leave the Imaging Chamber and get a few hours shuteye now so that he could keep watch for Sam later in the day. This would enable Sam to snatch a couple of hours before the storm broke, both literally and figuratively.

Sam then took a pitcher of water through to Gil, who was likely to be getting pretty dehydrated by now. Gil snatched it from him sullenly.

It proved a lot easier than Sam had anticipated persuading Burgess that he was not fit for work and that 'Ken' could cope with doing double duty until he felt better.

Sam would have been happier if Burgess had put up more of an argument. It would have meant that on some level the old man still cared.

Al had suggested that there would be time enough to look for a long-term solution to Gil's alcoholism once the crisis was over. Sam could probably set the wheels in motion, make sure Gil would get professional help, and leap with the assurance that everything would turn out for the best.

Still, all through the day Sam fretted that he wasn't trying hard enough to get through to Gil. In his gut, it felt wrong not to be tackling the problem head on and helping the old man through his personal crisis. Sam was prepared for it to be tough, but he still felt it was worth a try and that it was his duty to try. "It's never too soon to start early" kept running through his head for some inexplicable reason.

Al had been right about Gil being unreceptive though. A couple of times when Gil had come out of his room to visit the bathroom, Sam had tried to open up a channel of communication, asking him how he was feeling and if he needed anything.

"Just for you to _leave me alone_, whelp," was the politest he got in return, followed by a forceful slamming of the door.

**QLHQ **

**Waiting Room**

Verbena had spent several hours chatting with the current visitor. She found Ken to be intelligent, witty and charming. When she told him as much, he was surprised or, more accurately, astonished. Most people, he told her, thought he was a dullard. It was as if they assumed the blot on his face had somehow sucked his brains out.

Bena had met that attitude all too many times. People often had a horrible tendency to talk to the caretaker of a physically handicapped person, as if confinement to a wheelchair or whatever made them congenitally stupid and incapable of even rudimentary conversation. It was reprehensible but far too common.

"I suppose I'm partly to blame," Ken told her, "I've always been painfully shy so I've tended to avoid crowds and deep, meaningful one on one conversations." He gave a little apologetic snigger.

'_Who could have blamed him for being shy?_' thought Bena.

She really liked this young man and found herself looking forward to their chats. She would have loved nothing better than to book him in for immediate laser treatment to shrink his birthmark. It may not have been one hundred percent successful, especially since it was usually done on a much younger subject, but she was convinced it would have improved his physical appearance significantly. Unfortunately, since it was not readily available in 1982, it was against the rules. She couldn't even suggest to him that he explore the possibility a few years down the road.

Talking over with Aurora - the project's head medic - her regret that something that would have such a positive impact on the young man's life was forbidden to her, Bena was thrilled when the doctor came up with 'the next best thing'. The two women set about arranging it at once.

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

**Friday, 1****st**** October, 1982**

**6.30pm**

Sam had divided the day between the routine chores of the lighthouse - which had not taxed him much given his foreknowledge of future events - and his further attempts to break through Gil's defensive wall. The latter had continued to be 'mission impossible'.

Gil had refused point blank to eat anything that Sam offered him during the morning and had only grudgingly accepted the pitchers of water that Sam kept plying him with. He left his bedroom only to visit the bathroom and did his best to act as if "Ken" was not there at all. Not once did he attempt to ask if everything was running smoothly, which of course it was, or to take any interest whatsoever in the business that had formerly been his life.

By mid afternoon, Gil had finally decided he was ravenously hungry. Sam knew this was because his liver was too busy working overtime trying to break down the alcohol to efficiently control his blood sugar levels. Gil had emerged from his room and headed in the general direction of the kitchen, colliding with several pieces of furniture on the way. Sam had intercepted him and promised to bring him 'room service'. The surly man finally accepted grudgingly when Sam suggested he might be too 'ill' to be safe cooking and was at risk of burning himself.

The way Gil tacked across the floor like a small boat in a high wind left little doubt as to how he was still spending every waking moment in his room. Sam prepared him as much carbohydrate and starch heavy food as he could muster to help soak up the booze, though he was pretty sure that by this point nothing would help much. At least Gil ate it this time.

Now it seemed that Gil had either run out of supplies, or just out of steam, because Sam could hear him snoring loudly again.

Al arrived at 6.30pm on the dot and, while they exchanged what little news they had, they made their way up to the top of the lighthouse.

As he winched the weight up, Sam told Al of his unsuccessful attempts to get through to Gil and his feelings of failure that he had not been able to do more to help.

"I told you he wasn't ready to listen, Sam. With any luck he'll stay in a drunken stupor all night and, once you know the yacht is safe, you can concentrate on the full Beckett charm offensive. Right now, the last thing you want is to make Gil angry."

"I guess you're right, Al. I just hate to see him like that, you know? I feel I should be doing... oh, I dunno... something... anything."

"I've had Ziggy check, Sam. After this incident, there isn't another ship in danger for over five weeks. You can afford to concentrate on the yacht first. Tomorrow you can start on Gil's rehabilitation."

Sam conceded Al's point, yet his anxiety translated itself into a furious energy poured into the winch so that the weight was hauled up in half the normal time. Though the effort made him sweat and his muscles protested the activity, he achieved a certain release of pent up frustration that felt good.

In no time, he'd turned on the beacon, done his circuit of the balcony, and was heading back down the dreaded stairway.

"Why the devil didn't they put any windows in this darn tower?" Sam complained as he held the oil lamp aloft to light his descent. He should have been getting used to it by now but he still found the eerie shadows unnerving.

"Probably because of the risk of them being blown out in a storm." Al reasoned.

The lighthouse was very old, well over a hundred years, and simplicity had been the watchword in its design. The potential for modernization had been there over the past few decades of course, but Archie and Gilbert had resisted all such moves. It was a wonder they even had electricity, thought the Admiral wryly. Even that was provided by a generator - a back up of which was housed in the shed with the supplies.

Back downstairs Sam checked the radio while Al checked on Burgess.

"Sleeping like the proverbial baby, Sam." He reported moments later. "Though it's sure not mother's milk he's tanked up on!"

"Keep an eye on him, Al. Make sure he's okay." Sam exhorted him as he slipped away to try to get some sleep himself.

Al nodded his assurance. He was more concerned that his friend would find sleep elusive. Sam had a tendency to worry too much, though lately it had been with good cause.


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

**Friday, 1****st**** October, 1982**

**11pm**

The previous four hours had passed uneventfully for Al on sentinel duty.

Sam had slept little, and that fitfully. His slumbers were troubled with nightmares, from which he awoke trembling and panting. After each, he would lie staring at the ceiling - forcing himself to relax. Gradually, the after-images of his broken body lying shattered like a smashed eggshell at the foot of the lighthouse faded from his eyelids. Then he would venture to try falling asleep again.

A few times, a different nightmare would plague him. In this particular one, Gil was trapped in the bottom of a giant whiskey bottle, drowning in the amber liquid. Sam was struggling to get the bottle open and pull him out, but try as he might the stopper remained firmly in place. The leaper was forced to watch helplessly while Gil tried desperately to drink enough of the bourbon to stay afloat. Only the more he drank, the deeper the contents of the bottle became. Dream-Sam then attempted to break the bottle to free him but it was too thick and tough to smash. He invariably woke from this nightmare thrashing about wildly and perspiring, soaking the sheets through.

It was almost a relief when Al came into his room and told him it was time to get up and operate the winch again. Sometimes the waiting, the anticipation of catastrophe, was worse than facing the danger square on.

"Where's Gil?" Sam wanted to know as he went out to check the radio again.

"Still out like a light," Al suddenly realized what he'd said, "Ah, _if_ you'll pardon the pun."

"Not funny, Al." Sam shot back, his nervousness making him a little terse.

"Sorry, buddy." Al gave his scolded puppy look. "Talking of lights, since that's the real crux of this leap, I suggest you go up and keep an eye on the lamp for the next couple of hours. I know you hate the climb, Sam, but it's where you need to be. Besides, if you don't haul that weight back up soon, the lantern is gonna stop rotating anyway."

"Shouldn't I get on the radio first, Al?" Sam suggested, going over to it. "If the yacht is in range I can warn it about the storm, maybe give them time to get inshore before it hits."

"Ziggy says no, Sam. Even if they are close enough to hear you, the storm will be on them before they can get to safety. If they try now, they'll get wrecked miles back and you'll never find them in time. Nor will the nearest coastguard before you suggest it buddy. For the moment, it's best to stick with plan 'A', Sam."

Sam hadn't just been stalling, he really had thought it might be a good idea to try and get in touch with the boat. Accepting Ziggy's prediction with a resigned sigh, the leaper filled one of the cargo lanterns with fresh kerosene, and once it had been lit, he began his journey up the long and winding road to destiny.

**Saturday, 2nd October, 1982**

**1am**

Inside the lighthouse, all had remained quiet for the past two hours save the grinding of the gears on the winch as Sam had drawn the weight up.

Outside, it was a different story. It had been raining lightly when Sam reached the lantern room, the drops pitter pattering on the windows as they were buffeted on a mere breeze.

The storm had really started to make its presence felt shortly after midnight and by now it was in full Olympian fury. Sheet lightening periodically punctuated the pitch black of night, like a flashbulb in a coalmine. Thunder rumbled with the intensity of a giant's stomach after a week of fasting. The rain lashed down with the vigor of Niagara Falls, met by the white foaming swell of a sea whipped to frenzy by a wind measuring a full force eleven on the Beaufort scale. The necklace of black rocks was completely submerged beneath the surging waves.

It was a storm that could well make the superstitious believe in the wrath of the gods, such was the vehemence with which the elements attacked the little island on which they rested. Sam looked out and turned green at the sight of a huge wave biting off a large chunk of rock from the far side of the island, swallowing it whole as it returned to the depths of the ocean from which it had emerged like a leviathan. He decided he _really_ didn't like being over 100 feet above sea level, atop the vertiginous lighthouse, but he was even less keen on the swelling tide coming up to meet him.

The rain, which was more like hail, now hammered frenetically on the windows - a million manic drummers dueling for the coveted positions of fastest and loudest. The wind howled round the lighthouse like a horde of banshees screaming their portent of death. Sam was determined they would be denied. Yet still it made him shudder with dread.

So loudly raged the tempest that neither Sam nor Al noticed Gil's booming voice as he railed and swore below. Having been awoken by the storm's ferocity, he'd discovered that his bedroom was now devoid of all supplies and had ventured forth in search of replenishment. One by one he'd discovered his secret hiding places had been revealed and his precious treasure stolen. As he ransacked the living quarters, he was threatening all kinds of plagues to be heaped upon Ken when he caught up with him, initially because he assumed the boy was taking the booze for himself. He was surprised when he turned the other bedroom upside down that he found nothing of value to him there. Then, when Gil discovered numerous empty bottles in the kitchen waste bin beneath the sink and realized what the boy had done, he swore to do all manner of painful and permanent harm to Ken's most vital organs for wasting so much perfectly good bourbon.

By this stage, Gil's anger and his perceived need for a drink had driven all remaining reason from his marinated brain. He searched the house again for any bottle he may have forgotten, for one that Ken may have overlooked. He tossed everything in his path aside with no regard for either breakages or potential personal injury.

As he searched the desk yet again, the radio crackled into life. A small vessel was reporting their navigation equipment was malfunctioning. They were asking for help to get their bearings. They'd drifted off course and run headlong into the storm.

"Quit yer yapping!" yelled Gil, as if it were Ken trying to meddle in his affairs again. When the cry for help came again, Gil vented his fury upon the unsuspecting device and swept it off the desk onto the floor where it smashed into silent pieces.

"Hah!" Gil nodded his head in the direction of the remains as if to say, "that shut _you_ up, didn't it!"

Back up in the lantern room, Ziggy squealed.

"Uh oh." Al muttered.

Sam was not sure which sound concerned him more.

"What is it, Al?"

The Observer knew there wasn't time to break it to him gently.

"Ziggy says the yacht has sent out an SOS."

"I need to go down and talk to them." Sam prepared to make the dreaded descent again.

"Hang fire a minute, Sam." Al cautioned, "I'll be right back."

Al had himself re-centered in the lounge area. As he'd feared, the radio was splattered on the floor with the rest of the flotsam from Gil's rampage. Of Gil there was no sign, so Al took a moment longer to have himself re-centered on the old man.

Al was not pleased to find Burgess partway up the spiral staircase. He was moving surprisingly fast for someone so much the worse for drink, and with seeming purposefulness. As he climbed, Gil kept reiterating the many imaginative tortures he was about to heap upon Ken, some of which were anatomically impossible, but no less intimidating for all that.

Panicking that history was about to repeat itself in goriest Technicolor, Al hastily re-oriented himself to Sam's side.

"What's going on, Al? What's all that noise?" Sam wanted to know. He was crouching down by the aperture where the upright ladder led to the mezzanine, trying to work out what Gil was yelling. It was just as well he couldn't make it out.

Al filled him in on the radio's destruction, and told him in somewhat less precise terms than those he'd heard, "Gil's baying for your blood, Sam. Well, Ken's but it amounts to the same thing. Can you nip down there and lock that door so he can't get up?" Al waved in the direction of the door Sam had collided with when Al first arrived.

Sam was not altogether surprised by Al's news but that didn't mean he liked it in any way, shape or form.

"There's uh, there's no key for that door, Al," he explained, gulping hard.

Both men, thinking the same thing, immediately cast around the lantern room for anything that might serve to jam the door shut. There was nothing heavy enough that wasn't firmly fixed to the floor or walls where it was.

That meant likewise that it would be impossible to block the hole with anything heavy to keep Gil from coming up the ladder. Sam would have to make his stand on the winding staircase or in the lantern room itself. He was far from happy at the idea of doing battle on the narrow twisting stairs, but he was even more loath to let Gil anywhere near the precious light.

Sam turned around and started backing down the ladder.

"Whatcha gonna do, Sam?" Al asked, a worried look evident on his face.

"I have no idea, Al," the leaper confessed, "so if you have a plan, I'm all ears." Sam was halfway down the ladder. He paused to look at Al. "Right now, all I have is 'Gil plus lantern equals disaster, ergo keep Gil as far from lamp as possible.' The 'how' I'm still working on."

He practically jumped down the rest of the ladder and turned to the door. As his hand reached out to open it, they heard Gil cursing and issuing fresh threats, so loudly that even allowing for his constantly bellowing tones, he had to be _really_ close.

Al didn't even bother asking Dom to re-center him. He just stuck his holographic head through the door. Seeing Gil's angry red face rapidly rising up the last steps to meet him, Al soon retracted his head.

"Don't open it!" he shrieked at Sam, gesticulating wildly. Sam was quick on the uptake and instead shouldered all his weight against the door even as he kept his hand on the handle to stop it turning. With any luck, Gil would be too inebriated to work out how to open it.

"**I'm gonna tear you limb from limb, whelp**!" Gil growled as he reached the top stair. Finding the door didn't open easily Gil put down his kerosene lamp and shouldered the obstacle. "**Let me up there, you thieving...**"

"Oh yeah, like anyone would just say 'okay, up you come' to that!" Al commented sarcastically.

Sam turned and pressed his back to his side of the door, planting his feet firmly on the floor for balance. The door was still shut, but rattling alarmingly as if it wouldn't stand the strain much longer.

"You're not well, Gil," Sam reasoned. In a sense it was true. "Go to bed, we'll talk about this in the morning."

"**Like hell we will!**" roared Burgess. All pretence at subtlety had evaporated with the loss of his higher brain functions. He was epitomizing 'brute force and ignorance'. A sudden sharp shove rocked the door on its hinges and then broke it free, gaining him an inch or so of ground and jerking Sam inward a corresponding distance. The leaper recovered quickly and pushed back even harder, desperation lending him strength. The door closed again.

Sam's medically trained mind then remembered that far from enfeebling Gil, the intoxication would actually be giving his opponent added strength. Stimulated by the alcohol, adrenalin would be released which would send blood to the muscles, his primitive brain instinctively reacting to his situation by making him strong and ready to fight. This was going to be tough.

"Please, Gil, let me help you..." Sam knew in his heart that Gil was way beyond all rational thought, but he had to reach out anyway.

"**Help yourself, more like!**" Gil seemed to have forgotten what he had concluded in the kitchen and was once more convinced that Ken was stealing his bourbon for himself.

"No, Gil, please..." Sam needed to push harder and harder just to keep the door seesawing an inch or so open and shut. He was starting to perspire, his own muscles straining with the effort.

"**When I get my hands on you, I'm gonna rip your throat out!**" Gil's words may be slurred by intoxication but they came across loud and all too clear.

Sam may have hoped he could last Gil out, keep the status quo until the older man exhausted himself. He was now beginning to fear that he wouldn't be able to match Gil's primal strength long enough to win this reverse tug of war.

A sudden surge of aggression from Gil had him charging the door like a rampaging bull elephant, a guttural growl emanating from his throat and mounting to a full-blown roar. Though Sam braced himself and pushed back with all his might, the door gave way under the assault and flew open, flinging Sam forwards. Off balance, he tried to spin around to regain his position, but instead stumbled dizzily backward so that he collided forcefully with the upright metal ladder. Rungs connected sharply and painfully with his calves, thighs, kidneys and shoulder blades, the momentum rebounding him forward again. He felt like a ball in a pinball machine. Had the impact been any harder he may have been looking at broken bones instead of just bruised flesh, but the brief flash of agony made it hard to feel grateful.

While Sam was still reeling, both physically and from the shock of the impact that momentarily took his breath away, Gil followed the door into the mezzanine area and hurtled toward him with the ferocity of the Tasmanian Devil striking like a tornado and ranting with equal hostility.

Sam just managed to duck and dodge the grasping but mercifully uncoordinated hands. Gil may have been a small man, but his drunken rage made him an intimidating foe and Sam had to fight down the urge to dash out and flee down the stairs. He had a lantern to defend.

Soon running out of space, Gil was forced to put the brakes on his advance. He changed direction and, moving more slowly but just as purposefully he began seeking out the prey that had avoided him.

The drunk had his arms straight out in front of him, making him resemble a Mummy or a Zombie from the movies. His unintelligible ramblings lent further credence to the comparison.

"**C'm'ere!**" Gil looked round as if not sure where his quarry had vanished to. He lashed out in all directions with his arms as he lumbered around the small mezzanine area. Sam had to weave back and forward in an almost balletic dance in order to avoid contact. It might have been comical if it hadn't been so serious. The leaper was suddenly reminded of being in a wrestling ring. It was not a pleasant recollection.

Though insubstantial, Al was also instinctively keeping out of Gil's way. Once or twice as he was about to walk right through the hologram, Gil squinted almost as if he thought he was seeing someone. Al shook his head, unwilling to believe that drunks, like children, animals and those near death, could also see his image. It made Al even more determined to keep out of his way. He soon had his image realigned so that he was looking down on the scene from the top of the ladder, as Sam had done shortly before. When the positions permitted, Al gestured to his time-traveling friend, "Sam, up here! Up the ladder! Quick!"

Sam didn't need telling twice and scrambled up the metal ladder before Gil could see what was happening. Gil growled obscenities and tried to grab at his foe, connecting more by luck than judgment with Sam's left ankle. Gil's grip was like a vice, pinning Sam as a butterfly to a lepidopterist's collecting tray.

Wrapping his arms around the rungs in front of him to steady himself and prevent Gil from pulling him back down, Sam tried to shake loose the hold that threatened to crush his ankle. Every muscle in his body ached from where he'd collided with the ladder earlier.

"**Hold still, blast you!**" Gil moaned, acting as if the ladder itself were moving. "**I'm gonna kill you! Don't belong here, whelp!**" He flailed around with his other hand, trying to strike any part of Sam that came within range. Sam wriggled and dodged. It looked like stalemate.

"C'mon, buddy, kick him in the head and be done with it." Al advised, making a little punching gesture as he spurred Sam on.

Sam risked a quick look upward to his friend and hissed under his breath, "I'm trying to _stop_ anyone getting hurt!"

"**Quit mumbling, boy!**" Gil punctuated his order with a jerk on Sam's leg that almost had him plunging downward. He felt the sharp tug and the pull on his arms as he tried to hold on, and just managed to hook his right leg around the next rung up to anchor himself in place.

Still Gil did not loose his hold and the stalemate continued.

"You gotta do _something_, pal!" Al stated, rather obviously, "I'm not saying kill the old guy, but you have to keep him from that lantern and you have to stop him hurting either you _or_ himself."

"Tell me something I _don't _know!" Sam retorted through clenched teeth, thinking that Gil had already managed to hurt him quite enough. It was taking all his concentration to cling to the ladder and dodge the random blows that Burgess was swinging his way. The drunk may be operating on pure animal instinct but his primal urges were entirely hell-bent on destroying his enemy, making him single minded and strong as the proverbial ox.

In answer to Sam's request, Al informed him, "I don't think you can stall Burgess here 'til that boat is safe. It is going to break up on the rocks in..." Ziggy squealed confirmation, "in precisely 51 minutes and 42 seconds."

"Gee, thanks." Sam shot back, not at all reassured by how long he had to prevent the tragedy.

Experimentally, Sam tried to climb higher up the ladder, hoping he might be able to pull away from the shackle that was holding him down. The rest of his body got one rung further up but though he heaved with all his body weight, he couldn't pull free from Gil's grip. After a few moments, he had to abandon the attempt before his bones snapped. Gil countered the movement by tugging harder and Sam had to give back more than the ground he'd gained to relieve the tension of straining muscles. He was going to be stiff in the morning, he knew.

"**When I get you down here...**" Gil began his threats again and Sam decided he had to change tactics.

"Yeah, what you gonna do, old man?" Sam made his comment a challenge and reversed so that he was coming down the ladder.

"Careful Sam" warned Al needlessly, "I'm not sure you can call his bluff."

When Sam tried to move his left leg this time, he had gravity in his favor instead of against him. Being careful **not** to kick Gil in the head, Sam pushed down, forcing Gil to bend to maintain his hold. Sam was counting on Gil not thinking through logically what was happening. It was awkward but Sam managed to get his right foot back on the floor. The toes of his left foot were on the second rung.

Grabbing the ladder with his right hand for balance, Sam swung his left hip, twisting his body round and kicking his left leg out _over_ Gil's head. It wasn't an elegant move but it did the trick. Gil started to twist around as he tried to keep hold but was soon disoriented and off balance. He let go of Sam's ankle and flailed around trying to stop himself from falling over. As luck would have it, he staggered backwards and his hand happened to make contact with the door, putting the brakes on his tumble and letting him right himself.

Sam didn't wait beyond seeing that Gil wasn't going to plunge headlong down the stairwell. He scuttled up the metal rungs like a squirrel bolting up a tree.

Once safely up the ladder and through the opening, Sam again leant over to see what Gil was doing. As he did so, he spared a moment to rub his tender kidneys.

"With any luck the cantankerous old soak won't be coordinated enough to follow you, Sam." Al said hopefully.

Sam was not so optimistic.


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

**Saturday, 2nd October, 1982**

**1:41am**

Gil had spent the past five minutes or so prowling round the mezzanine like a caged lion, growling and spouting threats and obscenities by turns. Sam had been relieved that on one of his circuits Gil had walked into the door. The collision had not been fast or hard enough to cause him injury but it had made the old man aware of the door's presence so that he had slammed it shut in irritation. Now that Sam knew Burgess wouldn't be falling helter-skelter down the stairway, he could concentrate on keeping him from getting to the lantern.

Unfortunately, his next tour brought Gil's unsteady gait into contact with the metal ladder. As if noticing it for the first time, he started stroking the upright, exploring it as though he'd never encountered it before and had no idea what it was.

"Keep waiting him out, Sam," Al advised, "He's staggering a lot so he's bound to crash out soon."

"Maybe," Sam whispered back, trying not to draw attention to himself. "He's still got time to do plenty of damage, though. I gotta stay alert." In antithesis to his words, Sam yawned but tried to cover it.

Al noticed the yawn but didn't comment on it. He knew the kid hadn't had a lot of sleep since this leap started and what he had managed could hardly be described as restful. If everything went according to plan and the yacht was saved, the Observer intended to see to it that Sam took a good long refreshing nap before he tackled Gil's problems.

True to Murphy's inexorable law, at that very moment the plan went haywire.

Gil had evidently worked out what the ladder was for and, by clutching hold of it as if it were welded to his hands, was managing to make reasonable upward progress.

"I don't suppose you'll consider pushing him back down?" Al asked.

"Absolutely not!" Sam shot back, "He may be alcoholically anesthetized to any pain he'd incur but I'm not about to risk breaking any of his bones."

Al rolled his eyes; Sam was the eternal Boy Scout.

"**I'm coming t'get you, freak!**" Gil informed Sam. He sounded, as Al so eloquently put it, 'mighty steamed'.

Al reasoned with Sam again, "I know you'll tell me you won't arm yourself in self-defense, Sam, since you're so determined not to hurt Gil, but at least look around and make sure there's nothing obvious _he_ can use against _you_."

Sam acknowledged the sagacity of the suggestion with a nod. He rose to his feet and made a hasty circuit of the lantern room. It was neat and uncluttered. He checked again the lock on the cabinet where more bourbon was stored, anxious that Gil not get his hands on any more booze. In addition, the thought of being shot with a flare gun was not one Sam wished to dwell on.

Reassured that the padlock was firm and the key safe in the breast pocket of his shirt, Sam concluded his tour of the room without having found anything that caused him concern.

He rounded the Fresnel lens, and came face to face with Gil, who meantime had finished his ascent of the ladder. Sam couldn't help it; he recoiled a pace or two.

For one, the stench of alcohol on Gil's breath was rank. For another, the look of sheer murderous hatred on the old man's face was intimidating to say the least.

Sam knew any reference to Gil's complaints would just inflame him further. He opted for feigning normality, though he had little hope of calming the irate inebriate.

"Oh, hi, Gil. Feeling better?" he began lightly, as if the altercation on the ladder hadn't occurred. "Rough night, isn't it?"

Al looked at him incredulously, wondering what Sam was thinking. He had to admit he could suggest no better course of action though.

Sam subtly herded Gil toward the windows without the man having any clue that he was being manipulated. He opened his mouth to rant at "Ken" but seemed unable to get a word in and, after a few moments, forgot what he wanted to say. Sam started to dare to hope that his stratagem may just work.

"What a storm!" Sam gestured out to the wild weather beyond the window. "Still, you've never lost a ship yet, have you, Gil?" Sam turned to look at him, hoping that flattery would help renew Gil's sense of pride in his calling. "Not one in... how many years is it?"

"Forty-six years, man and boy." Gil replied, almost by rote. Then it seemed as if he processed the reality of what he'd said for the first time in his life.

Sam's plan blew up in his face so abruptly that neither he nor Al saw it coming.

"Forty-six years of my life that damned lamp has made a slave of me. Ha! Gil the genii of the blasted lamp! How about that?" On the surface, it seemed a jovial enough observation but his eyes told a different story.

"Well, no more! D'you hear me? No more. Not one more damned minute!" As he said this, Gil suddenly and viciously lashed out with both hands, striking Sam squarely in the chest and following through to push him roughly out of the way. Sam was taken off guard and thrown off balance. He fell backwards hard, right through the window he'd been looking out of moments earlier. Next thing he knew, Sam was lying on his back on a pile of broken glass and splintered wood. He was spread-eagled on the balcony, freezing rain hammering down on his upturned face like a thousand tiny nails.

An instant later, Al was by his side, bending down with a worried, panicked look on his face.

"Sam?" Unable to reach out and help his friend to his feet, Al compensated by hitting his handlink in an urgent request for reassurance that his friend had not sustained any serious injuries.

Sam was winded and lay immobile for a few moments more while he got his breath back.

"You okay, Sam?" Ziggy had told Al that Sam had not been badly hurt but he still wanted to hear it first hand.

"Oh, boy! Did you get the number of that truck, Al?" Sam shook his head as he sat up, showering rain, plus splinters of glass and wood chippings from his hair. Carefully brushing aside some of the debris, Sam cleared enough space to dare putting his hands down to push himself back to his feet. Even so, he picked up a few slivers of glass in the heels of his thumbs.

"Careful, Sam," Al advised needlessly. Sam gingerly brushed himself down to remove any loose vestiges of the breakage.

Not wishing to risk cutting himself on the sharp shards of glass protruding from the Sam-sized hole in the window, Sam made his way around to the door. He stepped over as much of the wreckage as he could, both to avoid potential injury and so as not to alert Gil to his activities by crunching glass underfoot.

Gil seemed to have forgotten his existence. He had thrown a few futile punches at the huge lens and then cast around for another way to relieve his frustration. His bleary eyes happened upon the winch mechanism, which he perceived as a further symbol of his servitude. He lashed out this time with a high kick and in a surprising display of dexterity, managed to connect with the center bar of the 'z' shaped handle.

Such was the force of his vehemence, translated into kinetic energy, that Burgess dislodged the handle. It was designed so that a long straight strut was fixed inside a slightly larger diameter tube that connected it to the cogs and gears that wound the weight up on a huge chain. At almost 90 degrees to this was another bar of almost equal length at the end of which, running parallel to the first, was a shorter bar covered with a rubber grip which served to allow the operator to wind the handle with comfort.

Gil's foot had all but knocked the handle out. In his drunken state, he was unable to retain his balance after such a reckless maneuver and he stumbled against the winding gear, pushing the handle the rest of the way out in his unsuccessful attempt to keep from falling to the floor. Both he and it clattered to the ground.

Seeing his tumble, Sam hesitated in the doorway, his instinct to rush forward and help the fallen man counteracted by Al's renewed cry of caution.

This was precisely what Al had been afraid of. Gil hadn't been armed with anything but an oil lamp when he climbed the stairs. Yet in the original history, the lantern room had been smashed to smithereens and Ken's skull had been pulverized. Gil couldn't have done these things without something strong and hard to use as a weapon. It looked as if that 'something' had just become available. The last thing Al wanted was for Sam to fall foul of the same blunt instrument.

Gil didn't get up at once and Sam again took a step forward to help him.

"Watch yourself, Sam, please," Al begged. "Wait and see what he does first."

"Al, I gotta know he's okay. If that thing impaled him he could be losing blood."

To Sam, such a scenario meant that there wasn't a moment to waste. He strode forward purposefully now, heedless to Al's continued warnings.

Al had no option but to get there first. He had himself re-centered and while taking a close look himself, also exhorted Ziggy to let him know Gil's condition.

He didn't need to wait for the parallel hybrid computer to deliver her diagnosis. As he bent over Gil's body, the old man swore roundly and scrambled to his feet, grabbing the winch handle as he got up, passing right through the holographic image of one very alarmed Admiral Calavicci.

"Look out, Sam!" yelled Al, as Gil, with murderous hatred in his eyes, charged forward with the handle raised aloft like a sword.

**QLHQ**

**The Waiting Room**

Bena and Aurora were feeling very pleased with themselves. With some assistance from Ziggy, and unwittingly a little from Ken himself, they had found the perfect way to help the leapee. They were excited and impatient to share their idea with the young man.

It had taken a while to prepare but now they were ready they headed for the Waiting Room giggling like a pair of schoolgirls on a sleepover. They looked as if that could have been their intent too, for Aurora was carrying a huge make-up case. The content of Bena's bag was more mysterious. She had a canvas hold all that bulged with something large and sort of round, about the size of a medium pumpkin.

"Dr. Beeks!" Ken welcomed her enthusiastically, standing up and smiling broadly, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The psychiatrist was back much sooner than she had promised. He was pleased to see her again and intrigued by the 'luggage'.

"I told you, Ken, call me 'Bena." She smiled back, "This is my friend, Dr. Lofton."

"Aurora, please," the medic insisted. "I've heard so much about you, Ken, that I feel like I know you already."

"That's a pretty name for a pretty lady," Ken told her, making the Puerto Rican blush.

"Thank you, Chico," she replied, "but I'm a married lady with a little one and you are a bit young for me, I think." They all gave a little laugh and Aurora knew that Ken would not be nervous of her.

"What's in the bags?" Ken was bursting with curiosity, "Have you got me some oils or watercolors after all?" His face lit up with excitement at the prospect.

Early on in their discussions, Bena had learned that Ken's passion was art. He adored to draw and paint. She had procured for him a sketchpad and a steady supply of colored pencils but he had curiously been denied anything to sharpen them with. It was as if he were a prisoner or lunatic on suicide watch, denied anything he could potentially harm himself with. Or others he supposed. Yet sharp pencils could be dangerous if wielded in anger. Not that he would dream of harming Dr Beeks or anyone else for that matter. Though technically a prisoner in that he was confined to what they called 'The Waiting Room', he was well looked after and was really quite enjoying the experience of being treated like a normal human being for a change.

So far, he had not been allowed any 'proper' painting equipment, though no reason had been given for the denial. He knew some oil paints could be toxic but surely they could find some that weren't? As for watercolors, what harm could they possibly do?

"I'm afraid not, Ken, sorry." Bena answered him. Ever since Leon Stiles, they had been very cautious about what went into the Waiting Room. Ken was right that sharp objects were taboo, though Bena had plead the case for him to be allowed pencils, taking full responsibility for them.

It was not on security grounds that he'd not been given painting equipment though. It was a simple matter of practicality. The budget would not stretch to sending into town for easels, paints, and brushes etc. for a visitor who would most likely be departing soon after they were delivered.

"Stop tantalizing," Ken then begged the ladies, "what _have_ you got in there then?"

"Remember the self-portraits you let me have?" Bena still did not reveal the contents of the cases. She and Aurora had discussed how they would explain their plan to Ken and how they had to prepare him so that he was receptive to the idea.

Ken looked down at the floor for a moment.

Upon getting the sketchbook, he had started with landscapes, including a wonderful picture of the lighthouse that Sam was currently trying so hard to protect. He had a natural talent, a good eye for observation and the ability to draw accurately from memory.

After several visits, Ken had shown Bena a series of sketches he had made of her, each from a different perspective, without her even being aware he'd been studying her. They were excellent likenesses and she had been thrilled with them.

When she had asked him to do a self-portrait, he had initially refused. He didn't want to be reminded of the face he'd been allowed to shed for a while. Bena could be just as persuasive as the Admiral at a Funding Committee meeting though and she had managed to convince Ken to agree to a single full facial sketch. Once she had that, it had been relatively easy to get him to do different angles as he had of her.

"I know it took a lot of courage for you to produce those," Bena went on, "and I thank you for them. They've made our job much easier. There aren't a lot of photographs of you on file out there."

Ken's curiosity was peaked further. "I tend to avoid cameras whenever possible," he admitted, "except for things like my driver's license which I had no choice about. But why do you _need_ to know what my face looks like?"

"So we can help you change it!" Aurora couldn't contain her enthusiasm any longer.

Ken's jaw dropped. Was this some sort of sick joke? Why would they tease him about something that was so upsetting to him?

"_Change_? I _can't_ change my face! Don't you think that for as long as I can remember that has been my dearest wish?"

"Then prepare for your wish to come true!" Aurora told him.

Bena shot her a warning look.

"We _don't_ have a miracle cure for you, Ken," Bena hastily qualified, mentally adding a regretful '_not yet'_. She didn't want him expecting too much. "But we can help you to disguise your uh..."

"Disfigurement." Ken supplied quickly and bluntly, sparing her from finding some euphemism. "Okay, ladies," he continued cynically, "I'm listening, but I'm not holding my breath. Most often the suggestion is 'why don't you wear a paper bag over your head?' so I hope you have something better."

"I think we have something _much_ better," Bena told him gently, forgiving him his rare but understandable harsh tone, "but you have to be prepared to hear us out. I'm not sure you're going to like the idea right off the bat, but I can tell you honestly it has made a tremendous difference to a lot of young men in your position."

"Will you _please_ tell me what you're talking about?" Ken begged. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, he made a lunge for Bena's bag.


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

Amazingly, when he heard Al's warning cry and saw the approach of the one-man stampede that was Gil Burgess, Sam didn't run full pelt in the opposite direction to get out of the way. Instead, he calmly sidestepped, placing himself between Gil and the Fresnel lens.

Gil struck at where Sam had been, swinging at air and stumbling again. His movements were uncoordinated and jerky, like an old film sticking in the gate of the projector.

"Don't take your eyes off him, Sam," Al knew he was pointing out the blindingly obvious but Sam's instinct for self-preservation seemed to have taken a hike.

Gil spun round, looking behind him with a 'where did he go?' bemused look on his face. Sam circled round too, getting into Gil's field of vision and drawing him back away from the precious lantern.

"I hope you're not thinking of trying to disarm him, Sam," Al was afraid that was precisely what Sam was thinking. "You gotta stay outta range of that thing if you want to keep your skull in one piece."

"I know, Al," Sam conferred upon his friend a falsely cheerful grin. "There's never a hard hat around when you need one, is there?"

"**You talkin' t'me, whelp?**" Gil growled, squinting to try and bring the blurred image of the boy into focus. The boy didn't look as hideously ugly as before, an attribute that Gil instantly dismissed as being a trick of the light. Having found his target, Gil rushed at him again, raising his weapon high. Again, Sam sidestepped and Gil brought the handle down on thin air.

"Is this guy _never_ gonna pass out?" Al asked incredulously.

This time, his stumbling brought Gil into a near collision with the locked store cabinet. Memories of what it held penetrated his sozzled skull and diverted his attention from his aggression. Using the handle as a crowbar, he levered it open.

Al hoped and prayed that in his eagerness to grab the last of his prized bourbon, Gil would simply drop the iron bar for Sam to retrieve.

If only it were that simple. The implement remained firmly in his grasp. Rather, he found the quickest, though far from safest, way to get at the contents of the bottle. Gil smashed the neck of the bottle against the edge of the cabinet, taking the top inch or so off, including the stopper. Heedless of the jagged edge, he up ended the bottle and let the elixir pour out like a fountain, tipping his head back to catch the torrent as it splashed around his face.

A good deal went down his clothes and spilled onto the floor but enough reached his parched throat for him to ignore the wastage.

Sam edged closer while his opponent was thus distracted, not really sure what he intended to do but wanting to bring this grim pantomime to a swift and satisfactory conclusion.

Seeing that Sam was determined to act rashly, Al decided the best way he could help was by testing his theory that Gil's brain was so juiced up it was enabling him to see, if indistinctly, the holographic image he was projecting. A decoy may be just the thing to give Sam the edge he needed.

As Sam got within grabbing distance, Al positioned himself on the other side of Gil and waved his hand in front of the old man's face.

"Hey, Burgess!" he yelled, "over here!"

Gil didn't pause in his imbibing, but he did frown as if unsure whether he saw and heard anything or not.

"Yeah, you!" Al waved his hand again and whistled as if calling a dog.

Sam saw and appreciated what Al was trying to do. He didn't know if it was working, but Gil was certainly not focused on 'Ken'. It was now or never.

Sam made a lunge for the handle, dangling from Gil's now relaxed arm.

Unfortunately, as he did so, Sam slipped on a patch of bourbon pooled on the floor. Losing his balance, he also missed his aim and floundered, reaching out for anything that would keep him from going down. His hands found nothing, as Gil pivoted his body out of range to look for the source of the annoying noises. Unluckily for Sam, his head found the edge of the cabinet door, which he butted like a stag in rutting season.

Recoiling from the impact, Sam's hand went to his forehead even as he struggled to stay upright. He was clearly dazed. "Oowwwwwww," he howled.

Gil turned back to seek out the new source of cacophony. The sight of the boy who'd stolen his booze once more inflamed his anger and he raised both the iron bar and the broken bottle in a threatening manner.

"Back off, booze hound!" yelled Al, trying to get Gil's attention away from Sam again so his friend could recover his senses.

Gil lashed out randomly with the bottle, narrowly missing slashing Sam's cheek. That was enough to focus Sam's attention away from the ringing in his ears and back to the little matter of trying not to get murdered.

"I don't want to hurt you, Gil," Sam told him, putting his hands out in a non-threatening gesture.

"**I wanna hurt **_**you**_**, whelp. I wanna cut yer thieving hands off!" **Gil made a huge sweeping gesture with his razor sharp glass weapon. Sam quickly retracted his exposed wrists.

Al rolled his eyes, "Just knock him down with a flying noodle kick, Sam, and be done with it."

"_No_, Al, it's too risky in his condition. He may _think_ he's invincible right now but he's actually particularly vulnerable." Sam was getting cross with his friend's heavy-handed suggestions. There had to be a better way. If not, then surely he shouldn't have to play for time for _much_ longer before the yacht was past danger. It seemed like this game of cat and mouse had been going on for hours.

Again Sam was reminded of a certain wrestling match. He'd had to stay in the ring, knowing that if he tagged his partner, the other man would die of heart failure. All the while his opponent had been pummeling him with barbarian brutality, Sam had yearned for the bell to ring the end of the round, the end of the match. Each minute had felt like hours then too.

Gil's head was turning one way and another as he tried to sort out the sounds in his ears from the ones in his head. His body swayed in protest at the dizzying movements. It looked to Al as if one good gust of wind would knock him over yet Gil remained tenaciously and treacherously on his feet.

For his part, Sam was struggling to stay on his. The floor beneath him was swamped with spilled bourbon and the soles of his shoes were wet from his previous slip. The blow to his forehead had left his head spinning. He would normally have been predicting his adversary's next move but, fortunately for Sam, he doubted if Gil had much of an idea himself what that was likely to be.

For this reason, both Sam and Al were now being cautious not to make any sudden moves or sounds that might enflame the anger of the armed assailant. Both in their own way were staying poised and ready to react when Gil finally made his move.

For a while, this stratagem led to Sam dodging just out of reach of the indiscriminate swishing and jabbing of the bottle in the general direction of various parts of his anatomy. If Gil had been sober, it would have seemed as if he were taunting Sam.

While this was going on, Al slowly and silently moved around to the side, wanting to be close if his diversionary tactics should prove necessary again and also wanting to keep Sam in sight to be sure his friend remained unharmed.

Gil continued his tirade, against "Ken" and against the lighthouse. As the lantern turned inexorably round it kept shining across the pair, casting grim shadows and reminding the old man of the purpose he'd embraced for so long and now resented.

It was on one of these rotations that things came to a head. Gil had just parried forward with the bottle and Sam had not dodged quite fast enough, earning him a small cut on the cheek just below his left eye. Al instinctively cried out when he saw blood had been drawn.

Hearing the sudden yell, Gil rounded in Al's direction and was blinded by the sweep of the lamp. In his alcoholic haze, it seemed to Burgess that the lantern itself was crying out in mockery of him.

The focus of his rage now became the lens and Gil charged toward it, screaming his hatred, still brandishing the bottle as his main weapon but keeping a tight grip on the metal handle in his other hand.

Sam knew the Fresnel lens would stand up to far more than the scratch the bourbon bottle could inflict. He was concerned that the bottle could jam in the cogs at the base of the turntable and, whilst the machinery would smash the bottle rather than the other way round, Sam could not risk there being any damage that might keep the light from its appointed course, even slightly. There was also the unacceptable risk that, once in range and having destroyed the bottle, Gil would switch to the heavier weapon.

All this was instant and instinctive in Sam's mind, leading him to sprint forward to intercept the whirlwind of fury personified in Gilbert Burgess.

As Gil struck out with the bottle, Sam reached across to deflect Gil's arm with his own forearm, successfully blocking the move, and by way of a bonus, jarring him enough to make the broken bottle slip from his fingers.

Before Sam could celebrate his victory, however, Gil had automatically thrown up his left arm in an attempt to counterbalance the downward thrust of the one Sam had attacked. Without even aiming to do so, his wild flailing caused the large metal implement to make sudden and substantial contact with Sam's skull, just below and behind his right ear.

Before his brain could process the information that he'd been hit, let alone what it was that had hit him, Sam fell to the floor unconscious.


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

"C'mon, buddy, wake _up_!" Al urged for the umpteenth time, wishing he could allow Sam the luxury of sleeping off the monster headache he was certainly going to have. His head would have been an indecipherable foreign language to the most skilled phrenologist. Sam's poor skull had taken that many knocks over the Leaps it was a wonder it hadn't shattered like a coconut at the fair long ago.

When Sam was knocked out, Al had been afraid that he was indeed going to suffer that fate, the same that befell Ken Barham in the original history.

Gil had been about to vent his anger on the fallen leaper, raising the heavy handle over his head with both hands in preparation for smashing the life out of the object of his wrath. Al immediately placed his holographic form between weapon and target, as indeed he would have done had he been there in person to defend his friend. Except of course, had he been there, they could have outnumbered and overwhelmed Gil in the first place and Sam wouldn't be in such danger now.

Al waved his arms frantically and yelled at Gil, drawing his attention away from the helpless hero. Gil looked at the apparition uncomprehendingly, but was drunk enough to allow his focus to be diverted elsewhere.

Al had saved Sam, at least for the moment, but by backing away and leading Gil's eyes in another direction, he unwittingly made the old lighthouse keeper again believe that the lantern itself was taunting him. His blows soon fell on the Fresnel lens, which, though tough, could not withstand the constant onslaught.

Al soon realized he could not protect both Sam and the light. Since his attempts to distract Gil seemed to be backfiring, he returned his attention to the unconscious figure on the floor and set about trying to awaken him.

"Sam, speak to me, buddy. Show me some sign of life." Naturally, Ziggy had already confirmed that the blow had not been fatal, although there was a hairline fracture to the skull and concussion was an inevitable consequence.

Even so, Sam was lying far too still in Al's opinion.

Sam had been out for the count for a scarily long time. Long enough for Gil to smash every bit of glass in the room, from the lens and lamp to the windows all around. He rampaged round the room, trashing everything he came into contact with. Finally, when there was nothing but Sam surviving his blitz, Gil collapsed into exhausted, inebriated insensibility.

"C'mon, pal, come out of it, please." The longer Sam remained comatose, the more Al worried over the long-term complications.

"Gnnn," a faint groan finally escaped Sam's lips.

"Attaboy!" Al encouraged, aware even beyond his concern for Sam how alarmingly fast time was running out for the occupants of the motor yacht. "That's it, Sam! Up you get!"

Al felt like a worn out record, using the same pep talks to get his friend through these impossibly tough trials.

At last, Sam stirred, his right hand instinctively moving to cradle his injured head. "Unhhhh," he breathed.

"I know you feel lousy, pal, but you gotta get up!" Al nagged gently.

"Huh?" Sam mumbled, his hand moving down to rub at his neck.

"The lantern's smashed to smithereens, Sam. The yacht's about to get dashed to splinters on the rocks. You gotta do something – get another light going or get out there and save them or... something... You don't have much time."

The urgency in Al's voice penetrated past the percussion playing a dramatic backing track inside Sam's skull. He tried to rouse himself. Putting his weight on his left forearm and right elbow while still holding on to the back of his head, he pushed up so his head and torso left the safety of the floor. Instantly he had to put his right hand flat down to steady himself as the room started spinning.

"Whoa! My head…" Sam lay back down, resting his pounding head on the soft padding of his arm, screwing up his eyes.

"Can't," his voice was clipped, as he tried to control the nausea that welled up toward his throat. "Can't... focus."

"What, buddy? Your brain or your eyes?" Al asked, trying to keep his tone light despite his concern.

"Yeah," came the less than specific reply.

"Sorry, Sam, I know you just want to sleep but those folks are gonna _die_. You _have_ to get up."

Sam clung to consciousness by the thinnest of threads, but he fought the urge to surrender to merciful oblivion because Al told him he must. Gradually, he got himself into a semi sitting position, right arm resting on raised right knee and supporting his head while his left leg supported his weight on the ground, aided by his left hand. His whole body ached from the various minor but cumulative injuries he'd sustained in his struggles with Gil.

"Gil?" Sam asked, his mouth dry and his voice hoarse. Suddenly penetrating the pounding in his head was the knowledge of who was responsible for it and the fear that more was to follow.

"Don't worry, Sam, he's passed out at long last." Al reassured him.

"Jeez, Al, uunnnhhhhhh, I feel like I've been 10 rounds with ahhh, with the Shilo brothers." Considering he was having a hard enough time remembering which way was up, let alone anything else, it was surprising that this particular past leap should keep coming to mind. Nevertheless, the analogy was an apt one for the way his body and especially his head hurt.

"I know, Sam, and I hate to pressure you when you're obviously feeling fragile, but..."

"Yeah…ohhh, the yacht… I know," sighed Sam, wearily and unsteadily forcing himself to his feet with a grunt. Once upright, he stumbled several steps backwards in an attempt to re-orient his spinning head. He steadied himself eventually by leaning against the cabinet where Gil had got his last bottle.

"Where's Gil?" Sam asked again, confirming to Al that the concussion was going to be a big problem.

"Sleeping it off over there," Al waved in the general direction of the now harmless human hurricane. He didn't bother pointing out to Sam that he'd already asked this question. Chances were Sam wouldn't remember in five minutes anyway.

Sudden inspiration surfaced from the sea of dizziness and Sam turned to examine the inside of the cupboard.

"What you looking for, Sam?" Al was sure that Sam had more sense than to try numbing his aching head with Gil's bourbon, even had any remained.

"Flare gun!" Sam produced it triumphantly, "I can send a signal, warn the yacht."

For a moment it looked as if the leap was going to cut the leaper a break for a change.

The moment was short-lived.

Sam's head disappeared inside the cupboard as he searched, tossing out other remaining random stores that Gil had not already trashed in his desperation to find…

"Dammit, Al, where's the... oh, what's it called? Ammo? There's no flares in here."

Al helped Sam by searching through the wreckage on the floor for signs of the precious flares. There were none.

"Sorry, pal." Al told him regretfully, "Gil tossed a load of stuff outside during his berserker attack. I guess the flares went thataway," he pointed out the broken windows.

Sam leaned heavily against the cabinet. The effort of his search had exacerbated his headache and increased his feelings of nausea. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

"What's Gil doing now?" Sam asked again, a faint note of alarm in his voice. Keeping any trace of the alarm he was feeling for his friend out of his own voice, Al yet again reassured his friend that Gil was no longer a threat, pointing to the bundle of snoring torpor that was the old lighthouse keeper.

"How about making a fire from all the broken window frames?" Al suggested on a brighter note, "The earliest beacon's were just hilltop fires after all."

Sam looked hopefully toward the wreckage but quickly dismissed the possibility. The storm was raging still and the downpour had saturated the whole area. Puddles were forming inside the lantern room, now fully exposed to the elements.

"Nice idea, Al, but it's far too wet to burn. Even if I could get it to ignite, it'd just smolder and smoke. Not much good for attracting attention in this weather."

"Doesn't give us many alternatives." Al observed.

"Looks like it just leaves the hard way," Sam mumbled resignedly, pushing himself forward and staggering as if he were as drunk as Gil as he headed for the hole with the ladder.

"Watch your step, Sam." Al cautioned, afraid his friend would topple down the aperture. Sam was really in no fit state to be up on his feet, much less dashing off on a rescue mission.

"That'd be easier if my vision wasn't so blurred," Sam confessed.

Somehow - he wasn't sure how - Sam reached the bottom of the ladder safely. He held onto it for quite a few moments after he was successfully down as if afraid that if he let go he'd fall over. It was a distinct possibility.

Then he took another deep breath and braced himself for the next stage. The one that _really_ had his stomach churning. Sam let go of the ladder and turned around, stepping purposefully if unsteadily to the closed door which led to the stairwell.

"Here goes nothing," he mumbled, opening the door and retrieving the oil lamp Gil had left there. It was almost empty, but still glowed with a faint light.

Gripping the metal rail with his free hand, Sam carefully planted his foot on the first stair and began his descent, Al keeping close by his side.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I _hate_ this damned helter skelter staircase?" muttered Sam when he turned the first bend.

"Once or twice, buddy," Al smiled encouragingly.

A little further and Sam slowed, if that were possible considering his cautious movements.

"What is it, Sam?" Al was instantly alert, concerned by the pain etched in Sam's face, "Is your head worse?"

"This headache's a real doozy," Sam admitted, "but I just thought - it's still a long way down. What happens if the light gives out before I get there?" There was an edged of tightly controlled panic in Sam's voice. Sam had taken a lamp up himself of course, but it had fallen victim to Gil's demolition derby.

Al pondered a moment and then punched his handlink, getting a reassuring squeal in response. Sam looked at him quizzically.

"Remember when you leaped into Magic?"

"I'm not a magician this time, Al, I can't conjure up a lamp from thin air." Sam's head hurt too much to try and work out what Al was getting at. "If I could, I'd do it up there!" Sam added wistfully.

"No, not a _magician,_ Sam. "Magic" is a nickname." Al explained patiently.

"In Vietnam?" Sam frowned as thoughts of his brother using that name filtered through the brain fog. _'We're so in tune that when_ I_ get gas, Magic breaks wind!'_

Al frowned too and then recalled where Sam was coming from.

"No, Sam, that was Herbert "Magic" Williams, I'm talking 'bout Charlie "Magic" Walters. My friend the pool player, remember?"

"Not really, Al. My head's killing me so bad I can barely remember _your_ name."

Al was not surprised. Sam was showing the classic symptoms of concussion and should be resting. Instead, Sam continued to edge gradually down the stairs, gripping the rail and watching every step.

"Anyway, Sam," Al continued, "when you had to win the pool game I helped you by outlining the shots with a laser light from the hand link. Zig says I can do something similar to guide you down."

"Say that again." Sam stopped and looked at Al.

Al looked back at Sam. The leaper seemed to be getting worse and Al was starting to fret about permanent brain damage. After all, repeated blows to the head over the years of leaping had to be like a boxer getting 'punch drunk'.

"It's quite simple Sam," Al kept his tone even, not betraying his fear, "I can use the handlink to guide you like a torch."

"Exactly!" Sam looked pleased with himself. He twisted round as if he was going to climb back up to what used to be the lantern room.

"What are you thinking, Sam? You have to get out there..."

"Al. You can use the hand link! Have Ziggy boost the power to max and it'll be like the lantern. Hurry up, before the boat wrecks."

"Sorry, Sam." Al intercepted him and gestured to show he should continue his downward progress. "It won't work. _You_ can see the beam because of our neurological link through Ziggy but it will be shining 25 years or so in the future. There's no way the yacht could possibly see it."

Sam's face fell. He looked as if he was about to sit down on the step and burst into tears like a little kid who'd lost his favorite toy. Al wouldn't have been surprised nor could he blame the leaper. The whole situation was way beyond unfair.

"C'mon, Sam," Al gently encouraged his friend, "the sooner you see those folks safe, the sooner you can rest."

"Promise?" whispered Sam miserably. In his experience, things rarely turned out so neatly.

Nevertheless, he resolutely continued his downward trek.

As he'd predicted, around three quarters of the way down, the lamp gave out, plunging him into total and terrifying pitch-black darkness. Fortunately, having prepared for the event, Ziggy soon had the hand link sending out a comforting beam of blue light. In fact, rather than the precise concentrated beam Al had used to target the pool shots, it was more like the scattered rays they had used to search for the bullet in the Church when Sam had been on Death Row. Al didn't think now was the time to remind Sam of _that_ experience.

Al pointed the illumination down at the steps, outlining each tread for Sam to negotiate.

Sam glanced at Al with a look of profound gratitude and then concentrated on making sure he didn't miss his footing. It was starting to look as if he'd make it safely to ground level.

Except as they both knew far better than most, looks could be deceiving.


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

**3.01am**

**Saturday, 2****nd**** October, 1982**

Sam had one more bend to round and he would be on the home stretch.

"Nearly there, Sam," Al encouraged.

Suddenly, Sam swayed and paused, gripping the rail tighter. He felt queasy.

"Sam?" Al's voice seemed to echo in the gloom.

"Al, I…" Sam couldn't explain. He felt an icy chill sweep rapidly throughout his body, making his skin tingle and burrowing right to his marrow. He had the sensation that a huge black cloud was enveloping him, forming a shutter over his already blurry eyes, blotting out all sense of where he was. Then he felt that it was forcing its way inside his skull, a heavy pressure filling his head like molten lead. His head was a black hole, sucking in dark matter until it could hold no more.

"I don't feel so…"

Sam didn't get any further, for at that moment he fainted.

Sam's limp body tumbled down the last few stairs under gravity's inexorable force. As he reached the bottom, the tread of the last stone stair connected sharply with the outside of his leg, just below his left knee. He finished up in an undignified heap, almost upside down at the foot of the staircase. Luckily, Gil had left the door wide open, otherwise Sam would probably have added yet another dent or bump to his skull. For a long moment, Sam didn't move at all and his body was so awkwardly contorted that Al feared he'd broken his neck.

"_Sam!_" Al yelled in alarm, having Dom re-center him at his friend's side and bending down to reassure himself that Sam was still breathing.

Consciousness returned much faster this time, which may have been reassuring to Al but was far from a relief to Sam.

"Arrrrrrghhhhhhhhh!" Sam soon let Al know he was definitely breathing, his first attempt at movement sending paroxysms of agony throughout his body.

Trembling violently, Sam slowly righted himself and sat on the third stair, bending over to clutch his left lower leg and rocking slightly with the pain. His face had turned a grayish white and his eyes were moist. He was breathing heavily.

Al hastily consulted Ziggy, holding his own breath for anxious moments while waiting for the reply. Al sighed as he read Ziggy's diagnosis, evidently thankful for the news.

"It's okay, Sam, nothing broken. You've bruised the bone and there's a bit of a nasty cut. Zig says it's badly distended right now but you should be ok."

Sam stared at him blankly, then swallowed hard and resumed his rocking. He was still panting and hadn't stopped shaking. His face was contorted with pain. Thin trickles of blood were seeping through his fingers where he was instinctively applying pressure to the wound. There was a jagged rip in his jeans that was rapidly turning pink at the edges and purple below.

Ziggy squealed again. Al swore under his breath as he registered the information that the yacht had chosen this most inopportune moment to collide with the hidden rocks and start breaking up.

"I know it hurts, buddy, but you gotta move it. The yacht just grounded. That family can't last long in the water in this cold. So suck it up, pal, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out there!" Al could have written the manual in tough love. Worried as he was for his friend, his apprehension was also escalating for the family on the yacht and their impending death sentence.

"What I'm _feeling_... _Al_," Sam responded through clenched teeth, "is sick to my stomach." A small sob punctuated his statement. "And right now... it's taking _everything_ I got... j-just to keep... from passing out again. So just give me one goddamn minute here will ya, _pal_?" Sam's breathing was shallow and rapid, his chest convulsing as he gasped to get enough air into his lungs. He leaned his head against the wall and forced himself to hold a breath, which then exploded out of him with a grunt.

Though justified, his vitriolic outburst was so unlike Sam that Al was physically as well as mentally taken aback. "Okay, okay, buddy, take it easy!" He threw up his hands in surrender as he reversed out of the firing line. Al fretted that it was just one more manifestation of the severity of the concussion Sam had sustained.

"That's just it, I can't, can I?" Sam threw back bitterly. He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Sam straightened his back, clutched the bottom of the railing with one hand, put his other on the step behind him and forced himself to resume an upright position. The moment he put the slightest weight on his left leg, however, he had to hastily grab at the door frame and lean against it to keep from falling down again.

"Ahh, Jeez!" he breathed, closing his eyes and panting hard. His pulse was racing.

"Sam?" Al knew his friend would never actually give up, no matter the personal cost. Only one of these days it would be just too much to ask of him. Truth to tell, Al wouldn't have blamed Sam for a moment if he'd declared that he just couldn't go on and had to concede defeat on this one. The leaper had every right to 'call in sick' on this job. Yet while everyone _else_ might have understood completely, Sam would never forgive himself if he let those people die without at least _trying_ to save them. Al knew it as well as he knew his own name, so he had to rally the leaper.

"It'll all be over soon, Sam, and then you can rest, I promise, but..."

"I know, Al I know. I'm going." Neither of them was sure which he was trying harder to convince.

Putting his left foot down as little as possible, Sam hastily hobbled across the lobby with an almost crablike gait. Once at the dresser he put his weight against the wall and took a few hitching breaths. Then he grabbed a woven scarf and knotted it tightly round his leg to slow the bleeding from the cut, struggled into a long hooded oilskin coat, grabbed and lit a fresh kerosene lamp, and headed for the front door.

Every time his left foot touched the ground, however lightly, a searing pain shot up his leg like a bolt of lightening, combining at his torso with a violent wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him. A giddy feeling in his head made hanging on to consciousness about as easy as hauling yourself up a sheer rock face by nothing but your bare fingertips. Nevertheless, Sam moved doggedly on.

Once outside a blast of cold wet air from the stormy night slapped him in the face and revived him a little, though the slippery ground didn't make limping any easier.

"Head for the boathouse, Sam," Al shone the beam from the hand-link to indicate the direction Sam should take along a narrow stone pathway. Unfortunately, this meant descending another steep stairway, this time the one hewn from the rock face.

Despite the kerosene lamp and Al's sparkling blue beam, Sam could barely see more than a few inches in front of him. The lingering effects of the concussion would have made it hard enough but, coupled with the dark stormy night and the driving rain that prickled at his face, Sam was stumbling blindly forward with very little confidence that he wasn't about to take a dive off the edge of the cliff. He had to rely on Al's reassuring voice and luminescent lime green suit to keep him on track. Well, that and the occasional brilliantly bright flash of lightening.

Progress was further slowed by the fact that Sam was walking, or more accurately staggering, directly against the strong wind, which buffeted his body and tried to push him back three paces for every one he took forwards.

"This is tough going, Al" Sam shouted into the storm, "I feel like I'm trying to play hopscotch on a leaky water bed!" Even though the worst of the storm had passed, the rain was still driving down so hard and at such an angle in the wind that it was running in torrents down his sleeve as he held the oil lamp aloft. His face and hands were burning red with the cold.

"You're doing great, Sam," Al spurred him on.

"How's the family doing, Al?" Sam couldn't really spare the breath to talk but he needed to know.

Ziggy declared that they were currently all still alive, but unlikely to remain so for long. Al scanned the water with the link light and found the yacht. He and Sam were just able to make out at least one person clinging to the wreckage and a couple of tiny figures struggling in the water. Al was pleased to see that they had on bright yellow life jackets, which would significantly increase their chances both of Sam finding them and of remaining afloat until he did.

By this time, Sam had reached the steps and began limping down. They were steep and slippery from the rain, and several times Sam almost lost his footing. He was running on pure adrenalin, only the thought of the family in such peril keeping him going. He was now so cold and wet, in spite of the oilskin, that he was more or less numbed to the pain in his leg.

Sam was barely aware of crossing the short narrow patch of shingle and rocky beach to the jetty. He soon found himself at the boathouse. The wooden doors at the rear were padlocked. Gil had not trusted 'Ken' with the keys but Sam was in no mood to go back and try to take them from him. Both wood and metal had seen better days, old and decaying, which gave Sam a glimmer of hope. He carefully set the lamp down on a flat rock and picked up a weighty jagged stone. Two or three well-aimed blows and the lock, along with a chunk of wood, fell at his feet.

The doors were tall and heavy, especially being sodden with the rain but, with a strength born of desperation, Sam managed to manhandle them open. Grabbing the lamp and hurrying inside, Sam examined what he had at his disposal. The boat was old but looked watertight. It was rocking gently on its own little patch of water, which lapped around the sides and disappeared beneath the saloon type doors that separated it from the sea beyond. It was tied up bow and stern to posts on a wooden walkway along the side of the boathouse. Lining the inner wall of the boathouse was a set of half a dozen life preservers on hooks. Sam moved along the walkway, intending to load them all into the boat. He had a feeling he'd need them. As ill luck would have it, all but one had perished beyond all usefulness. That one was hastily tossed into the bottom of the boat, where it landed on top of a tatty old fishing net. In years gone by, the keepers had probably passed the odd idle hour fishing out in the bay on calm days but it looked as if the boat had not been used in many years.

Having opened the front doors from the inside, Sam clambered into the boat, which was broad, long and heavy. He sat in the stern and pulled on the cord to kick the motor into life. Nothing happened. He tried several times, getting more discouraged with each abortive attempt. Not a cough, not a splutter. His arms ached with the effort and he was panting.

"Why won't it start?" Sam almost wailed.

"The petrol's probably evaporated, Sam. See if there's a can or a barrel or anything with a spare supply in."

Sam got back out of the boat and searched the rest of the boathouse. He found a broader walkway on the far side of the boat and a cupboard that held a large canister. He could smell petrol vapors as he opened the cupboard and seized upon the canister hopefully. He could tell by how easily he lifted it that he had not struck gold, however, and he all but screamed in protest when he held it up and saw the bottom had rusted away, allowing the precious contents to seep out. The shelf was steeped in spilled petrol, hence the lingering smell.

Sam hurled the useless article away angrily. "I don't believe this, Al!" he yelled, fighting the urge to burst into frustrated tears.

"What are you gonna do now, Sam?" Al knew the best way to keep Sam from sinking into self-pity was to set his mind working on solutions.

By way of answer, Sam cast off both ropes, scrambling hastily back into the boat as it started to slip out of its home like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. As it cleared the restricting sidewalls, Sam rammed a pair of oars into one of the twin sets of rowlocks fixed in the midsection and lowered them into the water.

"Row, row, row your boat," he mumbled mirthlessly, struggling to make any headway against the surging tide.

He'd left the oil lamp in the boathouse, fearful of setting the boat alight. The way this leap was going, that would have been almost bound to happen. Murphy seemed to be imposing his personal law with dictatorial severity.

Al 'stood' in the prow, casting his beam out upon the water, scanning back and forth for signs of the wreckage and the survivors. With Ziggy acting as GPS they soon locked onto target.

The vessel, being designed for a crew of two, was hard work to row on his own, yet it no longer felt as large and sturdy as it had in the boathouse. Out here on the turbulent waves of the open water, it seemed very small and fragile and Sam felt frighteningly vulnerable. As each wave struck, the wooden boat was tossed up and down in a seesaw motion that did little to ease Sam's queasiness. He was on a roller coaster and each dip had him showered in bitterly cold spray. He wished he could demand a refund, for it was not a thrill filled ride.

It was taking every scrap of Sam's concentration to keep the boat moving in the direction Al was indicating and every ounce of his energy to keep it moving purposefully at all. Sam was sweating despite the cold.

"Come on, Sam, one – two, one – two, get into a rhythm – stroke, stroke, stroke." Al encouraged, mimicking the timing using his cigar as an oar.

"Stroke? I feel like I'm about to have one, Al!"

As he struggled to control the wild undulations of the craft, Sam felt his nausea rising yet again. His head felt as if it were being crushed by tremendous pressure or that his brain was expanding beyond the capacity of his skull to hold it in. He really wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going feeling as dreadful as he did.

"Over there, Sam! Look!" Al cried out suddenly, pointing ahead and slightly to the left.

Sam squinted and thought he saw a yellow dot. With renewed vigor, he struck out toward it.

As he got closer, the single dot became two. Sam shook his head, thinking the head injury was making him see double but the image didn't change. He gently brought the boat alongside the floundering pair.

"Thank God!" gasped the older of the two, a man in his fifties. He was holding a young girl, somewhere in her late teens. She looked worse than Sam felt. Her skin was deathly pale.

Sam leaned out of the boat and gently lowered the life preserver over her head. Her father pulled her arms through so she was supported, then floated her to the side of the boat. Sam took her from the man, hauling her up as gently as he could. She was barely aware of her surroundings but moaned softly at the movement.

Once she was safely aboard, Sam turned to help the man.

"I can manage," the man said gruffly, "Just make sure my Joy is okay."

As the man struggled to clamber into the boat, Sam cast a professional eye over the semi-conscious girl. As far as he could see, aside from exposure bordering on hypothermia, she was uninjured save for a cut on her upper right arm.

Despite it being the middle of the night, both were wearing several layers of clothes under their life jackets. Sam was pleased to note that, having found themselves off course in an approaching storm, they had obviously prepared for the worst. That, as much as anything, had helped to keep them alive.

Sam hastily ripped apart the already shredded sleeves of the girl's cardigan and jumper and took a look at the injury. It was not deep and looked clean enough. He ripped a length from the hem of the smock top she wore between the other garments and bound it round the wound. She gasped and opened her eyes wide as he did this, then began trembling violently. Without hesitation, Sam struggled out of his oilskin and wrapped it around her.

Then he turned again to the man, who merely nodded "I'm okay." His shivering belied his assurance.

Without another word, the father lifted the second pair of oars from the bottom of the boat and fastened them in place. "Please, find the rest of my family," he begged through chattering teeth.

By now the storm had lost most of its ferocity. It was still raining but not as intensely, and the wind was no longer taking their breath away.

Unseen by any but Sam, Al continued to sweep the inky black water with his searchlight.

With two of them now rowing, they soon reached the spot Al next highlighted. This time the figure in the water was floating face down and insensible. Sam was afraid that they were too late, but Al hastened to assure him that this teenage boy was still alive. "Zig says the 'Mammalian diving reflex' kicked in to protect him, whatever that means." Sam merely nodded to show he understood and concurred with Ziggy's diagnosis.

Both Sam and the father reached over the side of the boat, trying to grab an arm each to bring the boy aboard. The boat swayed alarmingly, tipping toward the water. Before he knew what was happening, Sam had over-stretched his reach and toppled headfirst into the water, almost falling atop the very soul he was trying to save.

The water was icy cold, making Sam gasp as he came into contact with it. In his desperation not to submerge the floating body, Sam dove down beneath the surface and came up under the boy, pushing his face out of the water.

Sam quickly flipped the body over and held the head aloft as he tried to swim back to the boat. Sam's teeth were chattering and he was fighting not to hyperventilate. The bitter salt-water taste on his tongue from the mouthfuls of sea he'd been unable to avoid swallowing made him want to vomit all the more. It was only a couple of feet to the safety of the sturdy wooden vessel but to Sam it felt as if he were a salmon trying to swim up a waterfall at spawning time. Every movement was an exhausting effort.

Mercifully, the father had the presence of mind to toss one end of the net into the water. Sam managed to grab it with one hand whilst still gripping the unconscious boy in the other. Then the father pulled the net in until Sam was able to grab the side of the boat and, between them, they got first the boy and then Sam back into the boat.

Having taken only a couple of moments to get his own ragged breathing back under control, Sam bent over and set-to giving the boy mouth to mouth and CPR. Thankfully, he soon spluttered, spat out some water and then coughed.

"Jim?" the man queried.

"Dad," the boy whispered hoarsely, weakly offering a reassuring smile before coughing again.

Relief washed over Sam, closely followed by another wave of nausea, this time one he could not subdue. He leaned over the side and violently expelled the contents of his stomach, heaving repeatedly until he had nothing left to bring back.

"You okay, Sam?" Al asked when he'd finished, "You still look really green."

Sam gave Al a sideways glare, "_So_ not helping," he accused under his breath.

"Pardon?" queried the rescued man.

"Sorry I'm not helping," covered Sam, holding his stomach with one hand and his head with the other.

"You all right there, lad?" the father asked, sounding genuinely concerned, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Sam felt drained and very far from all right but he knew there were two more souls to rescue.

He nodded and grinned weakly.

Then he turned to look straight at Al, the question unequivocal in his eyes.

"They're clinging to the wreck, Sam - this boy's twin and their mother. They're cold and scared but they'll be fine if you get 'em quickly."

Nodding, Sam took up the oars again. After another look to be sure his offspring were stable, the father did the same.

Before long, the whole family were all crowded into the boat that now seemed impossibly small. While the mother cradled her daughter in her lap and stroked her son's head, Sam and the father rowed for the shore for all they were worth.

After a short while, the second son seemed to notice that their rescuer was struggling more than his father and muttering, "Budge up," he nudged alongside Sam and took one of his oars. Sam didn't even try to protest that he could manage and accepted the help with a grateful nod.


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

Al guided the boat back to the jetty and Sam led the family inside the ransacked living area of the lighthouse. The little lighthouse was not really designed to cater to so many guests but they would just have to make the best of a bad situation.

Sam soon had them huddled round the open fire, which he'd built up to a nice roaring blaze. They were wrapped in blankets garnered from the stores and drinking hot tea.

Sam suggested that they should take turns having a warm shower once they'd thawed out from the inside with the tea. He managed to find enough of Ken's spare clothes to fit the teenagers, not glamorous for Joy perhaps but dry at least and so more comfortable. It wasn't as if the lighthouse had a nice convenient tumble drier to put their sodden garments in.

The parents, whom he discovered were called Donald and Marjory Kettler, were a tougher proposition. Don was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, and no way would anything of Ken's fit him nor anything of Gil's for that matter. The same was true for Marge, who was 'well rounded'.

Once he'd satisfied himself that Joy's wound had been properly treated and dressed - a task that was hampered by her frightened reaction when she came to her senses and saw Ken's blemished face - and that Jim was not concussed, Sam started looking for anything else that might be useful in preventing his guests from taking a turn for the worse. Marge offered to help, seeing that their rescuer looked to be probably the most serious casualty of them all but Sam insisted she get warm and dry first. She could help later. "Later" was also his answer as to when he'd get his own needs tended to.

"Ease up, Sam, you look fit to drop." Al fretted, wondering why his time-traveling friend was still masquerading as Ken. While there were lives to be saved, Al would play slave-master and crack the whip. He'd push Sam to his limits and beyond because that was what they did – 'professional botherers' as he'd once put it. Now he didn't see why Sam needed to keep suffering since it appeared as though he'd done what he'd been sent to do.

Ziggy was being her usual vague self as to why Sam hadn't leaped yet. The Observer had no suggestions of his own to offer. All Al knew was that leaping would cure Sam's ills and, in his mind, that couldn't be soon enough.

Sam was of the same mind but he didn't waste energy on idle wishes. As long as he was there, he was on a mission so he may as well get on with it. His shrug told Al 'Chance would be a fine thing!' He continued more or less on autopilot.

There hadn't been a great deal of conversation since the rescue; it was taking them all a while to deal with the shock of their brush with death. Don had, however, queried as to why the lighthouse had neither answered their distress call nor done its job of shining a warning beacon to keep them off the rocks.

Sam had briefly explained that Gil was 'ill' and had caused the damage - which they could now witness for themselves – whilst not in his right mind. Al had listened incredulously as Sam defended the old man to them.

Resolved to help Sam as much as he was able, Al went in search of useful supplies.

A few moments later, he came out of Gil's bedroom and jerked his head to indicate that Sam needed to step away from the family so they could talk.

"What is it, Al?" Sam asked wearily. Al had that look on his face like he'd trodden in something unpleasant. It didn't bode well.

Al saw the expression on Sam's face. A pure Sam-the-boy-scout look of 'I know you're about to tell me something I'm not going to like and I _really_ don't need this right now but bring it on anyway'.

"Don't worry, Sam," he hastened to reassure his friend. "I think I've just solved your dry clothes problem for the Kettler parents."

Sam's face showed his relief, sprinkled with a dash of puzzlement as to why Al looked so unhappy about it. A tilt of his head bade Al explain.

"It's a...erm, it's a bit icky, Sam. See, Gil's got a couple of boxes on top of his wardrobe and one has some more 'generous' clothes in. Thing is... uh... thing is, Sam, he's kept some stuff of his old partner's; they… um, they were Archie's clothes."

He said this last bit in a rush as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth. Al was a style guru. He took his personal wardrobe very seriously. The idea of putting on a dead man's clothes was totally distasteful to him. He shuddered.

Sam was more pragmatic.

"I agree it's not the most pleasant thought, Al, but needs must. Better that than either of them end up hypothermic." Sam still felt uncomfortable going into Gil's room and he knew the old man would have a hissy fit at the thought of his mementos of Archie being touched but the Kettlers' need was greater than Gil's sensitivities.

Soon, Sam had sorted out dry apparel and towels for everyone and before he knew it he was the only one left to take a shower and get more comfortable.

Just as Sam was finally about to get warm and dry, and take a few minutes to tend to his leg wound, Gil re-appeared, and the family saw the truth of the situation for themselves. The smell of spilled bourbon on his clothing was enough to leave no doubt as to what had caused his 'aberrations'.

Gil was no longer ranting and raving in a drunken rage but he still staggered as he came into the room. He was far from sobered up yet he had a solemn look on his face. He didn't seem to be aware that there were other people there.

"What have I done?" Gil tone was bewildered and he stared blankly at Sam as if not seeing him at all.

"What _have _I done?" he repeated, this time reproachfully.

Sam approached him slowly, calmly, "It's okay, Gil, really," Sam told him soothingly, "Everyone's safe. Look." Sam gestured toward the family, still warming themselves round the fire.

Gil looked over in the direction indicated but still did not seem to register what he was seeing. His eyes passed over the group without a flicker. Until, that was, he looked at Don Kettler.

Eyes still bleary from the booze, all he saw was a big man in Archie Hudson's clothes.

"No! Archie, no! I didn't mean to!" he cried and before Sam could do or say anything, he turned on his heels and ran out into the lobby and, from there, out of the main door into the cold dark night.

A beep came from Ziggy.

"He's gonna commit suicide, Sam. Zig says he's gonna jump off the cliff."

Sam started running after him, albeit lopsidedly. After a few moments and at a nudge from Marge, Don and his son John followed behind.

"I guess that's why his body wasn't found first time, Sam," Al offered as he kept pace with his friend. "He must have realized he'd been responsible for all those people dying, and for killing Ken, and thrown himself over the cliff. But you changed all that, so why's he still...?"

Sam didn't waste breath answering. It didn't matter why. All that mattered was stopping him from doing it again.

Sam caught up with Gil just as he approached the top of the stone staircase. The storm had died away, though the air was still damp and cold, and it was pitch dark. Neither had stopped to pick up a lantern.

"Gil, wait," Sam called, "Listen to me," he edged closer but was careful not to startle the old man into doing something rash.

Gil was muttering to himself and shaking his head, seemingly oblivious to Sam's existence.

"It's me... Ken... the whelp..." Sam used the term Gil had thrown at him so acerbically but it didn't have the desired effect. "I'm okay, Gil, and the family from that yacht is okay. They're all safe. Nobody died. Come inside."

Sam was almost beside him now. A few more paces and he'd be able to make a grab for Gil if he had to. Behind them, Don and Johnny were closing the distance, holding up the oil lamp they had been prudent enough to grab. Seeing the light out of the corner of his eye, Sam half turned and gestured to them to keep back and stay quiet so as not to alarm Gil.

In that second of distraction, Gil made his move.

Without a word, he jumped.

"Sam!" yelled Al.

Sam turned back, saw what happened, cried, "Gil!" and equally without warning took a running jump after him.

Al tried to put himself between Sam and the cliff's edge, waving his arms and screaming, "Sam! NO!"

At the same time, Don cried out, "Don't be foolish!"

But it was all to no avail. Sam disappeared over the edge of the cliff.


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

**QLHQ**

**The Waiting Room**

Ken could probably have wrestled the bag out of Bena's hand, but he didn't want to risk hurting her.

So when she pulled it back out of reach and said, "Okay, okay, but both together," he relented and sat back.

"Lay it on me, sisters," he gestured with both hands palms upward, fingers together and waving toward him.

Bena nodded to Aurora and in one slick synchronized movement they unfastened their bags.

Aurora opened up her case to reveal compartments of differing make-up but instead of there being dozens of shades of lipstick and eye shadow or rows of eye liners and mascaras, they were all variations of foundation creams and powders.

Ken didn't know whether to laugh or get cross. They wanted him to wear _make-up?_ Like some vain teenage airhead girl! It was outrageous. For the moment he was speechless.

Bena's mystery object was even more shocking. It turned out to be a life-size clay model of Ken's head, a three-dimensional likeness that was uncannily accurate in every tiny detail. Between the two or three official photographs Ziggy had manage to dig out of the files and the pictures Bena had persuaded him to draw, they had reproduced his image down to the tiniest dot of his port-wine stain birthmark. The skin tone of both blemished and unblemished flesh was reproduced in precisely the same shades he saw when he looked in the mirror – until he'd arrived here of course.

"That thing is so lifelike it's positively scary!" he told them, instinctively reaching up and brushing his hands through his hair as if checking to make sure his head was still on his shoulders.

Aurora smiled at the gesture, "Is okay, Kenneth, she reassured him, "I no transplant a different head on you!"

"It's not every day you come face to face with your own severed head! Man, that is sooo freaky!" Ken was looking askance at it, as if part of him didn't want to see it at all while the other part was drawn to it in morbid curiosity.

"That's _exactly_ why we didn't want to spring it on you," Bena's tone and the look she gave Aurora showed her disapproval of the way things had unfolded.

"It's like I'm becoming an exhibit in a waxworks." He turned his back on the object, somewhat overwhelmed. "What was that old horror movie? Vincent Price was in it, I think. 'House of Wax', wasn't it? They could use that...that _thing_ for the remake!"

"Now that's enough of that, young man," Bena scolded.

"I think is very fine face," Aurora told him. "You have kind eyes."

"Most people don't get as far as looking me in the eye." Ken turned back toward her, his expression sad where his tone was bitter.

"It is honest face." Aurora pronounced firmly.

Ken gave a hollow laugh at that. "Well, it isn't a good face for a criminal, certainly! Talk about standing out at the ID parade!"

Bena's answering laugh was genuine but not cruel, "With quick come-backs like that, maybe you should be a stand-up comedian."

"No, thanks." Ken responded flatly.

There was silence for a long moment.

Ken was the first to break it, pointing at Aurora's box of tricks.

"Are you ladies seriously gonna suggest that I should start wearing make-up? Cos I don't even think _girls _should plaster their faces with that stuff. I don't think it 'enhances' them at all. It just turns a pretty girl into a clown or a hooker."

Neither Aurora nor Bena were heavily made up; they just wore subtle touches of color to highlight their eyes and such. They weren't offended by his comments.

"You have a point," Bena admitted, "but we're not suggesting you suddenly start wearing outlandish make up like..." she thought for a moment for a reference he could relate to and then the perfect analogy came to her, "like you were one of the singers in 'King Thunder', or one of those crazy pop groups."

"I should hope not!" Ken retorted. He'd never really followed the wild trends of the music world but he'd heard of the group she mentioned of course. They were big when he was a young teenager and all the kids at school had raved about them.

"Don't think of this as makeup at all," Aurora told him, taking out a pot of flesh colored cream. "In these circumstances, we prefer to call it 'concealer', since that is what it does. It's a kind of camouflage, if you like, and even creatures in nature do that. Look at the chameleon."

"To make me blend in with my surroundings," Ken countered, "instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, you mean?"

"To make you less conspicuous, let's put it that way," Aurora took the lid off the pot. "Please, let us show you."

They had already spent some time experimenting with various products to make sure that when they presented their idea to Ken they had the exact combination of hues to get the most natural effect.

"Knock yourselves out," Ken told her, still sounding unconvinced but willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for the moment. He had always wondered what it would be like to have a 'normal' face. If they were right about this 'concealer' stuff, then he may just be about to find out. He daren't get his hopes up and so outwardly he remained cynical, but inside his heart skipped a beat at the prospect of it actually working.

At first, Ken remained skeptical. He couldn't see how the application of the creams was helping; the head still looked hideous in his eyes. Then gradually, as the different layers were built up and blended in, his port wine stain began to fade and disappear. Ken found himself leaning forward, watching the vanishing act as if it was truly a magic trick. He was spellbound.

"One shade all over would not give the desired effect," Aurora explained as she worked, "because skin tones naturally vary across the face."

Ken nodded. As an artist he knew all about tints, hues and shading.

"Eh, voila!" Aurora said at last. She held the head up to the light and tilted it this way and that so he could see the finished article in all its glory.

Not a trace of his birthmark remained. The head now looked nothing like him at all. If he had not seen the 'before', he would not for a single minute have believed that this was a representation of _his_ face.

"Wow, what an amazing transformation!" Ken was wide-eyed with incredulity.

"Do you like it?" Bena asked gently.

"Is that _really_ what I'd look like?" Ken couldn't help but think that, if it looked too good to be true, it probably was.

"Spitting Image," Bena assured him.

"And you can show me how to do all that myself?"

"Sure, no problem."

He was half sold. More than half sold if he were honest with himself. Yet he still had reservations.

"I'm still not sure I could be comfortable with putting on make-up every day like a cheap slut."

"Don't think of it as putting on make-up, Ken," Bena suggested, "Think of it as painting a portrait with your face as the canvas!"

Ken's face - or more accurately the aura of Sam's face - broke into a broad grin. "Now _that's_ a concept I can relate to!" He nodded in approval.

"That's the spirit," Aurora told him.

"But won't it take forever to take it off every night?" Ken was making excuses and he knew it. This was just so huge; he couldn't believe it could be so easy.

"That bit's easy!" Aurora assured him, immediately applying cleansing lotion on a cotton wool ball to the model. Wipes were easier still of course, but they had to stick to what he could buy when he got home.

"When can we start lessons?" Ken wanted to know.

"No time like the present!" Bena winked at Aurora. They both appreciated the absurdity of that statement in the circumstances.

Ken picked up a cotton ball and soaked it liberally in the lotion. Then, following Aurora's example, he began cleaning his 'canvas' ready for his own attempt at a new self-portrait.


	15. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Cape Peligro**

Sam's body slammed into the water with such force it may as well have been a brick wall. The impact knocked the breath out of him and further tenderized his already bruised and battered body. He'd barely had time on the way down to register what a reckless act he'd engaged in. Now he was fighting for his own survival in the still icy waters and desperately seeking to save the life of another.

Al had Dom center him on Sam the instant he saw him disappear off the cliff. He found himself apparently deep under water. It was dark and he utilized the handlink beam to help him locate his friend.

Sam appeared immediately, swimming up to the surface with frantic haste.

They broke the surface together; Al's holographic form dry and unaffected by being submerged, Sam panting urgently for breath and batting at his face to stop his hair from dripping into his already water-stung eyes.

"Sam, are you okay? What were you _thinking_?"Al admonished.

Sam trod water in a tight circle, searching.

"Wh-where is he, Al?" he asked, fearfully, his teeth chattering with the cold.

Al did not answer fast enough for the leaper so, taking a deep breath, he dove down again, groping in the darkness for some sign of Gil. After what seemed an age he resurfaced, coughing and spluttering.

"Al," the tone was commanding, even though the word was slipped between gasps.

Much as Al disapproved of the folly of the endeavor, he knew Sam was not about to quit.

"Okay, Sam." Al entered the command into Ziggy and within moments he was shining his handlink light to guide Sam to the body sinking rapidly into the depths.

Another deep breath and Sam plunged down under the water again, more purposefully this time. Snatching the blurred figure round the chest, Sam labored toward the surface once more. With his burden it seemed even further and more unattainable than before. Sam felt as if the weight of the water all around him would crush the life out of him before he could escape its fierce pressure. His lungs were screaming out for more air, the breath he'd held having been all used up.

Suddenly, he popped out of the water like a cork from a champagne bottle, gulping in lungful after lungful of sweet fresh air even as he struck out for shore.

By this time, Don and his son had descended the stone stairway and were looking up and down for signs of either man in the water. They didn't hold out much hope, being convinced that both would have been dashed to death on the rocks.

Yet after a few minutes, they caught a reflection of their lamplight on the pale face of a small figure in the distance. John ran full speed to the boathouse to retrieve the life preserver but, by the time he'd returned with it, his father was wading out into the shallows to help Sam drag Gil's body up onto the beach.

Now he was out in the cold night air again, Sam was shivering violently, his teeth clattering like a room full of grannies knitting scarves. He was heedless to his own discomfort though. All his attention was on Gil. As soon as they were clear of the water, he rolled the old man on his back and began alternating between CPR and mouth-to-mouth.

All three men around him, two substantial and one holographic, tried to tell him that his efforts were in vain but he took no notice. Over and over he went through the routine – fifteen chest compressions to every two mouth-to-mouth breaths.

"Come on, Gil, breathe," he ordered as he pressed down on the old man's chest. Sam's own breathing was still a little ragged from his exertions and his near drowning. He almost gagged at the stench of bourbon as he blew into Gil's mouth but he refused to ease up.

"Dammit, man, come on!" Sam pounded on his chest, listened for a heartbeat and then tried again. "Breathe, Gil, breathe, do you hear me?"

Gil wasn't listening.

None of them could have said how long he kept it up; it felt like hours but was probably only a minute or two at most. Sam was obviously exhausted but he continued relentlessly.

"Enough, Sam." Al gently chided.

"It's too late, lad." Don told him kindly.

"He wasn't supposed to die!" Sam growled through clenched teeth. "You weren't supposed to die!" He hammered Gil's chest again in anger and frustration, the last glimmer of hope that he'd get a reaction fading.

"Give it up, Sam, he's gone."

"It's no use, lad, he's dead." Don Kettler gently tried to pull the trembling young man away.

"Let's get you inside, in the warm, you're frozen through."

Sam turned toward him but seemed to be looking right through him. Then he shrugged off the reassuring arm and bent back toward Gil.

"There's nothing more you can do for him, lad," Kettler told him gently.

"No, that's where you're wrong, there is _one _more thing. I can't leave him out here." Sam stubbornly bent to pick the corpse up and haul it over his shoulder, having gently closed Gil's eyes. Seeing his determination and how his leg wound was hampering him, Don took over, carrying the burden with ease on his own broad shoulders.

John Kettler took Sam's left arm and draped it around his shoulder, putting his own right arm around behind the exhausted young man for added support. "Come on, mate, you look like you could do with one of Mom's nice hot cups of tea!"

Sam allowed himself to be led back up the stairs to the bright, warm lighthouse, but his spirit remained dull and cold and miserable.


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

Don Kettler gently lay Gil's body down at the side of the lobby and covered it over with a coat. Sam had conceded with a nod that it was not a sight Joy should be subjected to.

Sam's first instinct had been to lay the old man out on his own bed. On reflection though, the family needed rest and his first duty now was to the living. The little lighthouse was cramped enough without taking one of the only two beds for a corpse.

Sam was still leaning heavily on John when the little group entered the living area.

Marge Kettler took one look at the bedraggled young man with her son and ordered Sam to "get out of those wet clothes at once, before you freeze to death!" in a very matronly voice.

"Yes, ma'am." Sam responded numbly, pulling away from his human crutch. Like a zombie, he shuffled toward the bathroom but the crackling of the fire distracted him, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Moments later he had sunk into the vacant armchair and sat staring into the dancing flames as if hypnotized.

Don whispered to his wife what had happened. Joy was napping in the other armchair and he didn't want to wake her.

"Looks like the poor boy's in shock," Marge shook her head sadly. "I'll go put the kettle on."

"Sam? Hey, buddy, anybody home?" Al waved a hand in front of Sam's face but if he saw it then it didn't register on his features. "Talk to me buddy." Al concurred with Marge's assessment and Ziggy soon confirmed it. Sam was in shock. Al needed to rouse him out of himself. Try as he might, though, Sam just stared into the flickering flames and acted as if the rest of the world didn't exist.

"I know you feel bad about Gil, Sam, but there was nothing you could do. Ziggy says with the state he'd gotten his liver in he wouldn't have lasted more than a few months anyway. You weren't meant to save Gil, Sam."

The question remained unspoken between them. If not to save Gil, why was Sam still there? Why had he _still_ not leaped?

Sam's spirit remained anesthetized; he was unable to think of anything but his failure to save Gil's life. He couldn't accept that the old man had died 'on his watch'. His mind kept replaying events over and over, trying to show him things he could have - _should_ have – done differently to enable the happy ending he felt it his duty to ensure. Silent tears slipped from his eyes and trickled down his face. He made no attempt to brush them away. Inside, he felt hollow and numb.

"I should have saved him, Al. He shouldn't have died." Sam's voice seemed far away, even to him. "I failed him."

This last statement had a double edge to it in Al's ears. Could it be that Sam hadn't leaped because he failed to save Gil's life? Al didn't believe it. Sam had technically failed in the past, more than once, and still leaped. Even so, Al put the question to Ziggy. She wouldn't commit, but suggested the odds were very unlikely.

"To be fair pal, Ziggy only ever said your mission was Ken and the Kettlers. Gil's fate was never confirmed."

Marge threw a blanket around his shoulders and placed a towel on his soaking wet hair but he registered neither.

He took the cup of piping hot tea she handed him without conscious thought. His hands instinctively wrapped around the wide neck, fingers interlacing to feel the welcome warmth on his icy cold palms. He even sipped the gloriously tongue burning liquid without being aware of what he was doing. All the while, he stared into the fire as if somewhere within lay the answer to the question screaming silently in his brain, "_Why_?"

All around him, activity continued, though subdued. The night had taken its toll on everyone and they knew they needed to rest but they seemed unsure as to how to organize themselves. Their bodies were worn out but their minds were in turmoil and wouldn't let them relax. Marge busied herself making endless cups of tea, which the family drank as fast as she supplied them.

After a while, Jim got up from where he'd been sitting at the table to empty his bladder. As he stood, he winced and bent forward, a tiny grunt sounding in the back of his throat.

On the other side of the room, the sound penetrated Sam's consciousness and put his ears on alert, though his eyes remained rooted on the fire.

"What is it, honey?" Jim's mother was instantly attentive, honing in with the instinct of a mother hen.

"It's nothing, just a bruise." Jim insisted bravely, though his hand went instinctively to the injured area of his left side as he spoke. "I knocked my side on the rocks, but I feel fine. It's just a dull ache, I'm sure it'll soon go off."

Alarm bells sounded loudly now in Sam's brain. This new crisis roused him as no amount of encouragement from Al could have done.

Sam knew he needed to examine the boy but how could he convince the parent's he knew what he was looking for? They thought he was a young lighthouse keeper and, though he'd shown himself proficient in first aid, this was something altogether more serious.

Sam huddled closer to the fire, a slight rolling of his eyes telling Al that he needed a quiet word. While concerned that there was obviously a problem, Al couldn't help a sigh of relief that Sam was coming out of his introspection.

Hearing a whispered explanation from Sam of his concern, Al had Ziggy access the prognosis.

"You're spot on, Sam. Ziggy says he has internal bleeding. Left unchecked he's gonna rupture his spleen and it's gonna kill him. You gotta do something, buddy."

Sam had been hoping that for once he was overreacting. He silently cursed himself for not spotting the injury earlier. He'd been so concerned about the boy having lost consciousness in the water that he'd concentrated on the possibility of concussion. He should have examined the boy more thoroughly. It was inexcusable. Of course, had he voiced these self reproaching thoughts, Al would have pointed out that Sam himself was quite badly concussed and couldn't be expected to think clearly on the matter. If anyone were to blame, Al would have castigated himself for not checking with Ziggy - a careless omission. He'd been so worried about Sam's poor state of health; he'd taken the family's survival as assured.

Recriminations would do neither any good nor would they save Jim's life now.

Sam hauled himself to his feet, shucked off the towel and blanket, and shuffled over to where Marge was fussing over Jim.

"Please, let me take a look," he gently tried to pry Marge aside. She looked at him as if to say, 'He's my boy, I can take care of him,' but something in Sam's eyes made her trust him. She nodded and moved back.

"Jimbo, let the young man take a look at you," she ordered, a stern look freezing the '"but Mom," before it reached his lips.

Sam helped Jim to lie down on the dining table and then carefully lifted the borrowed shirt and jumper.

A huge angry bruise the size and approximate shape of a large pineapple marred the flesh just above Jim's hip. Marge gasped at the sight of it.

Sam leant down and gently rested his ear on the injured area. He could hear the leaking blood rushing to fill the membrane that surrounded the spleen. Jim had evidently burst a blood vessel on impact with the rocks. His body would have tried to seal the breach by congealing his blood to form a clot but careless movements had stretched and torn the vessel anew.

Sam then applied the lightest of pressure to the injured area. Jim screwed up his face and gasped but did not cry out.

"That's really tender isn't it?" Sam asked, looking the boy directly in the eye and leaving him no room to deny it. Jim conceded with a nod.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Though Sam had tried to keep his tone neutral, the mother in her had picked up the clue that something was seriously amiss.

Sam pulled the garments back down but rested his hand lightly on Jim's shoulder to make it clear that for the moment he should keep still.

Sam then turned to Marge, who had been joined by Don.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kettler," Sam began, remembering the days when he'd worked in a hospital and these conversations with relatives had been routine, "I'm afraid Jim has some internal bleeding…"

Marge grabbed her husband's arm, her eyes glistening. "That's serious, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Sam reassured her. "The body has very good mechanisms for healing itself but it needs the right conditions. I'm afraid in this case Jim's stoicism has worked against him. The pain he's been feeling is his body's way of telling him to ease up and allow the healing process to work. By 'being brave' and continuing to move around, he's compromised that recovery. He's been re-opening the wound but, because it is inside, none of us realized. If he continues to put any strain on that injured area, any sudden move could cause further damage. If it keeps building up, he'll rupture his spleen."

Marge almost screamed but her hand flew to her mouth to stop her. You didn't need to be a doctor to know that was very serious. Don put his hands on her shoulders to comfort her.

"I won't lie to you, Mrs. Kettler. If Jim were to rupture his spleen out here so far from medical assistance, then there's every chance it would be fatal. But, and it's a very big but, we _can_ keep that from happening. We just need to make sure that Jim stays as still and calm as possible for the next few days while his body does its job."

"Are you sure? How can you be so sure?" Marge wanted to know, her throat constricted with panic, making her voice hoarse.

'Here it comes,' thought Sam. Time for one of his patented get out lines.

"We learnt about it in Biology at school. The teacher had personal experience. She was lucky; she was visiting somebody in the hospital when her spleen ruptured and she collapsed. They were able to save her. She gave us the lecture about not ignoring injuries so it wouldn't happen to any of us. 'Always listen to your body', she'd tell us, 'it knows what's best for it.' I never forgot." It was a half-truth, for Sam did once have a professor who'd given very similar advice, though in different circumstances.

Al shot him an accusatory look, bidding Sam to take heed of his own advice. The leaper looked awful and Al knew he had to be feeling even worse.

"I think it's high time we _all_ got some rest." Don pronounced.

"Agreed," Sam nodded. "I'm afraid the accommodations are rather restricted. I think Jim better go into Gil's room. Mrs. Kettler, you and Joy will have to share K... eh... my room. It'll be a squash; you just need to make sure you don't jolt her arm too much. At least you'll be on hand if she needs you. Mr. Kettler, you and John will have to make do with the armchairs I'm afraid."

"What about you? Where are you going to sleep?" Marge wanted to know.

"Don't worry about me, Mrs. Kettler." Sam assured her, "Truth is I've barely slept at all over the past 36 hours or so. I'm so wiped out I could sleep anywhere. I'll just crash out on the floor by the fire. It'll thaw me out." He was only now beginning to appreciate how thoroughly cold he really was. Chilled to the bone was an understatement. His still damp clothes stuck to him, leaving his skin moist and clammy.

"That reminds me, young man," Marge adopted her maternal tone again. "Once I have Jim settled I'm going to take a look at you."

"I'm fine, really," Sam tried to tell her but he wasn't convincing anyone, not even himself. She just shot him a 'we'll see about that' sort of look. Then she and her husband helped ease Jim up from the table, instructing him to do exactly as the young lighthouse keeper had suggested and not to make any sudden or excessive moves.

John was sitting by the desk throughout all this. He'd listened in alarm as his twin brother's condition had been outlined and now was all the more determined to attempt what he had been contemplating. He'd retrieved the broken radio from the floor. He was good with electronics. He was pretty sure he could fix it. Then they could radio for help and Jim could get the hospital treatment he needed.

John was cursing himself for not speaking up earlier. He'd felt faint twinges in his side and knew he wasn't injured himself. It was like the time Jim had his tonsils out and John hadn't been able to shake the sore throat. They had always shared this bond. Jim told him that, at the very moment the baseball broke John's finger when they were ten, he'd dropped his dinner tray in the school canteen because the pain in his own finger had been so bad.

It was too late now to worry about not having said anything. All John could do was make amends by getting them some help. It looked as if the lighthouse guy could do with some medical attention too, and it wouldn't hurt for them to check Joy over either. He _had_ to get the radio working. It was as simple as that.


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Cape Peligro Lighthouse**

Sam returned to the warmth of the fireside and removed his shoes, socks and soaking wet upper garments. Huddling in the blanket Marge had given him, he used the towel to rub his hair dry, wincing as he caught the huge lump behind his right ear. He'd go and get a nice warm shower in a minute, he just wanted to sit by the fire and warm up for a while first, and get the weight off his leg. His leg hurt but he couldn't quite recall why. He should probably examine it and find out but he didn't seem to have the energy.

Physical overexertion coupled with sheer nervous exhaustion had left him totally drained. By the time the Kettlers came back out, he was half asleep in the chair. He roused at the sound of their approach.

"How's Jim?" he asked.

"Resting as ordered," Don replied with a grateful smile.

"Please, let me return the favor and examine that leg." Marge bent down by his chair.

"It's fine, really. I can take care of it myself later," Sam began dismissively but Marge would have none of it.

"Listen, young man, if you know enough to save my Jimbo from a ruptured spleen, you know enough to realize that a cut like that left untreated can lead to infection and blood poisoning, right?" She gave him the sternest gaze though it still held a twinkle of kindness.

"You're absolutely right, Mrs. Kettler." Sam conceded, recognizing his own earlier warning regarding Joy. He surrendered to her ministrations.

"Does it hurt much?" she wanted to know.

"To be honest," Sam admitted, "now I'm not running on sheer adrenalin anymore, and I've nothing to distract me, it's throbbing like crazy."

Marge gestured to her husband and he fetched a wooden chair from the dining table. Between them, they elevated Sam's leg on to it. As they did so, the blanket fell from off Sam's shoulders. Don saw the various bruises on Sam's back - some gained during his tumble downstairs, alongside tiny cuts and scratches sustained from falling through a glass window - and he frowned. Seeing this, Marge moved around and looked for herself. Most notable among the contusions were two horizontal bands of dark discoloration, one at lower kidney level, one just below his shoulder blades.

Marge tutted and shook her head sadly, "My God, did he _beat_ you?" It looked to her, as it did to Don, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to the young man and forcefully at that.

"What?" Sam queried uncomprehendingly. Al leant over to see what they were talking about, shocked to see the level of abuse marked on Sam's back. He'd witnessed the struggles but hadn't realized quite how badly Sam had come out of them. He recalled how Sam had sustained the particular injuries they were referring to.

"You have nasty marks on your back, Sam, from where you slammed into the ladder. Remember? I bet you have them on your legs too. Ow-wie, they look painful."

Sam looked confused. He ached all over but what had that to do with anything? He clearly couldn't recall the incident Al referred to, which wasn't that surprising really considering all he'd been through in the last few hours.

"Did that man make a habit of beating you?" Don repeated.

"No, no, of course not!" Sam found himself defending Burgess again.

The Kettlers exchanged a look as if they didn't entirely believe him. They had already decided that Jim should receive hospital attention at the earliest opportunity. Now they silently agreed that this young man should also be checked over by a doctor and thoroughly. Marge was almost fearful to remove the makeshift tourniquet on his leg, unsure of what she was going to find. Ken Barham, as he'd introduced himself, swore he got the injury falling down stairs but she was beginning to have her doubts.

Seeing her hesitation, Sam undid the now very tatty scarf and gingerly removed it, wincing. The wound had bled through and sticky, congealing blood had glued the fibers to his leg. Pulling it away re-opened the wound and fresh blood trickled down his leg.

Marge had procured a large pair of scissors from the first aid kit and, without waiting for permission, began to cut along the seam of his jeans. Once she reached his calf, she had to exercise greater caution, for the leg was so swollen that the trouser clung to it like a second skin. While he'd been busy with the rescue missions, it had helped to lend the leg support. Now, it was a hindrance.

"Hold very still," she warned. Sam nodded, bracing himself against the back of the chair. The last thing he needed now was to be impaled on a pair of scissors. Marge deftly eased the blades along the seam line, taking the split a few inches above the knee.

"That should do it," she declared, carefully peeling back the fabric to get a proper look at the injury. At once she sucked in air sharply and exclaimed, "Heavens, Don, take a look at this!"

Her husband obediently came over to inspect the wound for himself.

"That looks real nasty," he corroborated. "Is he gonna be okay?"

Al stepped forward and took a look as well. He rather wished he hadn't and hastily looked away again. Frowning, he began cross-examining Ziggy for an up to the minute prognosis.

Sam was alarmed by their concern. It truly hadn't seemed too bad after the initial shooting pain, which had felt like the reverberation of a tuning fork along the length of his skeletal frame. Though, on reflection, he'd had not only the adrenalin and the distractions to keep him from dwelling on the pain, he'd had the numbing chill of the cold water. He was now at least partly thawed out and the renewed circulation was what had caused the throbbing he'd complained of. At least he hoped that was the cause.

Now, he sat upright and leant forward to take a look for himself. What he saw was not encouraging. The knee and half his lower leg were swollen to nearly double their normal size and badly discolored from bruising. Although not quite deep enough to reveal the bone beneath, the seven centimeter long laceration was wide and angry and, now the air was getting to it, stung as if he'd been scalded.

Sitting forward set his head pounding again so he eased back, letting it rest against the soft padding of the old chair.

Marge started to clean the wound with a washcloth soaked in warm water. As she tried to tease stray fibers from the loose rough skin at the jagged edge of the cut Sam felt himself tense to complete rigidity.

"Jeez, lady, you trying to kill me?" he yelled, surprising even himself with the harshness of his tone. "Not like that," he continued, somewhat calmer. He reached out with a trembling hand and grabbed hers to stop her from reapplying the cloth.

"Sorry, I was trying _not_ to hurt you." His nurse looked abashed.

"It's not that," Sam told her, feeling suddenly dizzy, and sinking further in the chair. "You didn't... well, you did, but that doesn't matter."

Now she looked confused.

"That cloth is more likely to _cause_ an infection, it's not sterile. If you're gonna get those threads out you need sterilized tweezers. Better still, flush the wound."

"Flush?" Joy had been woken from her doze in the other armchair by his vocal cry. "Euwww, gross. You're not gonna stick your leg down the toilet?" she asked incredulously.

"No, of course not." Sam assured her, horrified at the thought.

"Listen carefully," Sam met Marge's eyes and held them, impressing upon her the importance of understanding and carrying out his instructions to the letter. He was really feeling the pain of the injury now that it was exposed and he was having palpitations. He needed to get his message across quickly since he wasn't sure how long he could hold on to consciousness. It was starting to look as if he might be heading for an infection. Blood poisoning could well be on the horizon too as she'd warned. He really needed to be in ER getting a shot of antibiotics and proper treatment, but in the meantime he'd have to settle for the best they could do.

"I think the only reason the wound isn't already infected is all the salt water," Sam began. "All that swimming actually helped."

Al looked at him like he'd lost his mind but Ziggy confirmed Sam's assessment. On the down side, he should have been resting his leg, not working it so hard. Ziggy predicted that the intense activity on an untreated wound might well have paved the way for a severe infection. The same held true for his head; he should have taken it easy but having put so much strain on it, he was likely to have exacerbated the concussion. Ziggy cautioned Al that however lucid Sam appeared now; he should be monitored carefully for signs of a relapse at regular intervals.

"The tourniquet would have prevented it from getting a proper clean out, though." Sam went on. "You need to get something like a strong plastic bag. Fill it with warm water and add a couple of generous teaspoons full of salt. Shake it to dissolve it thoroughly."

Marge let him know she was following him. She put a hand to his forehead and was worried - though not surprised - to find he was starting to feel warm. It was _not _a good kind of warm.

"Pierce the bag and squirt the solution directly over the wound with as much pressure as you can."

"Isn't that going to hurt just as much?" Marge wanted to know.

"Probably more," admitted Sam, "but it has to be done."

She got up to search out the items he'd outlined. As she turned toward the kitchen he put up a hand to show he'd thought of something else.

"What is it?" she asked kindly. "Would you like another cup of tea while I'm there?"

Tea seemed to be her answer for everything.

"Honey." Sam replied, "See if there's any honey out there. If there is, mix some with a little water. The dilution process causes it to produce hydrogen peroxide. A poultice will help keep infection at bay." _Not to mention stinging like the devil_, he thought resignedly.

Marge soon returned with the makeshift basting kit. She had also brought him a couple of Tylenol from the first aid kit and a glass of water. He accepted both gratefully.

"No honey, I'm afraid." Marge apologized.

"Can't be helped."

"Ready?" she asked when he'd taken the medication.

Sam nodded, grabbing the arms of the chair and bracing his body against the back. Al thought he looked like a scared kid at the dentists but didn't say anything.

Marge pierced the bag carefully with the scissors and began squirting a jet of salty water onto the open cut. The saying about rubbing salt on a wound was well founded. Sam pressed his lips tightly together and screwed up his eyes as he tried to ride out the intense pain. His knuckles turned white as his grip on the chair tightened. His breathing became erratic.

"Stop it, Momma. You're _hurting_ him!" Joy's plaintive cry startled them all. Marge stopped what she was doing with the bag still around half full.

Sam's eyes snapped open and he took a few panting breaths.

"It's okay, Joy," Sam reassured her, though his face told a different story. "I... ah... I appreciate the sympathy. And you're right. It _does_ hurt – a lot - but I _need_ your Mom to do this for me so that my leg will heal."

He turned his attention back to Marge, "Please, finish it. Make sure you get _all_ the foreign matter out of the wound." Sam said this quietly and Marge nodded in understanding.

Sam then looked at Don. "Perhaps it's time Joy went to bed," he suggested.

Don looked between the young man and his wife. She smiled up at him, "We can manage, dear." She kissed her daughter and they exchanged 'goodnights'.

"I hope you feel better soon, Mr. Barham." Joy told him with a genuine smile.

"Thanks. Take care of that arm." Sam replied.

Joy looked down at her feet and then deliberately looked him in the eye. "I just, uh, that is..."

Sam thought he knew what was coming but she had to arrive at it by herself. He just smiled at her.

"I wanted to apologize." Joy lowered her eyes again. "For earlier. You were trying to help me and I was rude to you. And you're not really scary or ugly at all. You're a very nice man."

"I've been treated worse." Sam told her truthfully. "No hard feelings, okay?"

"Thank you."

"Off to bed, young lady." Marge ordered. Joy nodded and obeyed.

Marge's eyes met Sam's. "If you need somebody to hold you down or just hold your hand, I can get Johnny over here."

"Thanks but I think I can manage." Sam's smile was part way to a grimace of pain but she respected his assurance. "Please, let's just get it over with."

"Of course."

Carefully aiming the stream of water to where it was most needed, Marge concluded her torture as quickly as she could. Which was just as well since it seemed the young man was holding his breath until it was done.

Finally, the torment was over and Sam let out a long heartfelt groaning sigh.

"Is it clean?" He would have sat forward to see for himself, but it was way too much effort.

"Looks clean to me." Marge told him confidently. "I think it's going to need stitches though."

"No shinola!" put in Al. "You should be in the hospital, Sam."

Sam shot him a weary look. What 'should be' and what 'was' were worlds apart sometimes.

"I'm working on the radio, Momma, but it's gonna take awhile." John held up a couple of the smashed components to indicate the magnitude of the task.

"A clean dressing will do for tonight," Sam decided. In truth, the night was all but over but they all needed to sleep for a few hours.

Marge ordered her son to help Sam limp to the bathroom. A quick shower and a change into the dry boxers he'd already laid out and he was ready. Marge deftly dressed the wound and helped Sam to settle for the night. Despite her further protests, he refused to usurp any of the more comfortable sleeping spots. So she put a couple of pillows down to keep his leg elevated, and lay down a couple of blankets to pad the hard floor. With a pillow for his aching head and a couple more blankets to cover him, Sam declared he was snug enough to sleep for a week.

Before heading for the bedroom to join her daughter, Marge kissed her husband and son goodnight. Then she knelt and planted a gentle kiss on Sam's forehead.

"I'm not sure we said a proper 'thank you' for saving our lives," she whispered. "Thank you, young man."

"It's what I'm here for," Sam replied.

Once she'd gone, Sam shot Al a look.

"I should be leaping," he whispered.

"Leaping? You can hardly stand!" John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"The boy's delirious," Don declared, wondering if he should call his wife back.

"Sleeping, I should be _sleeping_." Sam covered hastily. That was true too.

Al consulted his hand link, but Ziggy was – as usual – unforthcoming.

"I'll work on it, pal. Get some rest."

Sam didn't need bidding twice. The ordeal of the flushing had sapped the last of his already diminished energy. In moments, he'd fallen into an exhausted sleep.


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**One hour later**

The Imaging Chamber door opened and the Observer stepped through.

Al bent down next to the slumbering form of his best friend.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

"Huh?" Sam mumbled and shuffled where he lay. It was not the most comfortable position to sleep in but he was too exhausted to care.

A couple of minutes later and Al's persistent nagging finally roused the leaper.

"What is it, Al? Do you know why I haven't leaped?" Sam wanted nothing more than sleep but, if he could complete his mission, somehow he'd do it.

"Not yet, sorry, buddy. What's your mother's name, Sam?"

"Wha- ?" Sam almost sat up in shock at this random line of questioning. Almost - for a wave of dizziness kept him down after the first feeble attempt.

"Tell me your mother's full name, Sam." Al ordered.

"Thelma Louise Beckett. You know that, Al. What's going on?"

"Nothing, pal. Go back to sleep."

Shooting Al a filthy look, Sam sighed and settled back to sleep.

**Another hour later**

"Sam?"

The same routine as before: Al cajoling the time traveler until he responded.

"Now what?" muttered Sam.

"When's your birthday, Sam?"

"Al, quit messing, I'm tired."

"Your birthday, Sam?" Al pressed.

"Eight, eight, fifty three. Satisfied?"

"Thank you, Sam. Goodnight."

Sam mouthed something incomprehensible but Al was pretty sure it wasn't complimentary.

**One hour later still**

"_Sam!_" Al practically had to bark into the sleepy leaper's ear before he got a response this time.

"G'way, Al."

"Tell me your mother's name first."

"Go to hell. Let me sleep." Sam's voice was a low pleading whine.

"Sam. Your mother's name?" Al used the patient tone of a teacher asking for the note that was being passed around the classroom.

"Didn't you already ask me that?" Sam frowned.

"Did I, Sam?"

"I dunno, Al. And I don't _care_. I'm _so_ _tired_ and my leg hurts and my head aches. For pity's sake let me sleep."

"Tell me…"

"Thelma… Louise. Thelma and Louise…?" Sam mumbled, "Nah. Too tired to watch a movie now, Al."

Having been reassured by his earlier visits and the fact that Sam remembered the question, Al was now getting worried.

"Are you okay, Sam?"

"I'm fine, I just _need_ to get some _sleep_, but some _moron_ keeps waking me up and asking me inane questions!"

"Ziggy's orders," Al confessed, "She says we have to check your responses every hour because of the concussion. Only the normal questions like the date and who's the President are a bit misleading in your circumstances."

"I appreciate your concern, Al." Sam conceded, "but if I _do_ take a turn for the worse, what can we do about it?"

Al realized he didn't have an answer. He was twenty-five or more years in the future and a hologram. What was worse, Sam was stuck in a lighthouse miles from anywhere with no means of communication with the outside world. Those who were actually there with him could do nothing if Sam's condition deteriorated. Al's worry escalated to something approaching panic.

"Sam, I…"

"Don't sweat it, Al. If you can't do anything about it, it's a waste of time worrying." He may not have been receptive to this point of view when Gil died but he saw the sense of it now. "Seriously, Al. The best thing for me right now is a good sleep. Like I told the Kettlers, the body has a remarkable capacity to heal itself and the rate at which cells repair themselves goes up while we sleep. _If _I get worse, we'll just have to deal with it as best we can at the time." He knew better than to deny that there was a strong possibility of that eventuality. He was feeling pretty lousy and had a suspicion that he was starting to succumb to an infection. He felt shivery, despite the heat from the fire. Sam was not about to burden Al with that information, though.

"Okay, Sam, point taken. I'll leave you in peace to sleep. Take care, huh buddy?"

"Do my best," Sam smiled at his friend and shuffled around in search of a less uncomfortable position in which to slip back into sweet slumbers.

**10am**

The family had been up and around for a while, with the exception of Jim who'd been ordered to stay in bed. They agreed not to wake the young lighthouse keeper, who had been restless in the night, disturbing Don a couple of times with his delirious ramblings.

Marge had rustled up some breakfast and set about tidying the house as best she could. Since Gil was dead, she didn't see that the 'crime scene' needed to be preserved.

Now the young man was tossing and turning, mumbling in his sleep. Marge felt his forehead again. He was definitely running a fever and she was worried.

So too was a certain newly arrived hologram, who had been alerted to the change in Sam's vital signs.

"He needs a doctor, Donny," she stated categorically. Al silently agreed.

"That settles it then," Mr. Kettler replied.

"Settles what?" Sam had been roused from sleep so many times during the night that his brain had become accustomed to waking him at the sound of voices.

"Oh, good morning!" Marge greeted him brightly, relieved that he seemed coherent. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," was Sam's first thought. He had a raging thirst. He started to sit up, intending to get himself a glass of water.

"Take it slow, Sam," Al cautioned.

"Stay where you are," Marge commanded in a tone that expected to be obeyed, "I'll get you some water and put the kettle on. Would you like some breakfast?"

The kettle again! Mrs. Kettler seemed to spend half her life making tea. The mere mention of breakfast had his stomach doing flips though.

"No, thanks, I'm not real hungry," Sam told her.

"That'll be the fever," she whispered conspiratorially to her husband as she bustled out to the kitchen.

It took the whole time she was gone for Sam to haul himself into a sitting position and shuffle around so that he could lean against the side of the armchair. He was stiff and achy and, as soon as it was off the pillow his head started pounding. He noticed the leg wound had bled through the dressing a little but thankfully not too much.

When she handed him the water, along with a couple more Tylenol, Sam downed the pills and then drank greedily, until both Marge and Al admonished him that he'd make himself sick if he didn't sip it. "I was parched," he excused himself.

"Dehydration." Al and Marge pronounced in unison.

Sam put down the empty glass and starting pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" Marge put a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was.

"Listen to her, Sam, you need to rest." Al decided he liked Marge Kettler.

"I gotta get up. It's my responsibility to look after you folks." Sam knew that the fact he hadn't leaped meant there was something else that needed doing. If Ziggy and Al couldn't tell him what that something was, he'd have to find out for himself.

"You did your bit saving our lives. Now it's our turn." Don said in support of his wife. "Which brings us back to our decision. Keep working on the radio, John. I'm heading into town to fetch help."

"I should be doing that." Sam declared, trying again to get to his feet.

"Don't be foolish. You can barely stand. You need to keep the weight off that leg." Marge gave him a maternal 'do as you're told' look.

Al gave him the best friend equivalent. "I know you're worried that you need to do something more, Sam," he checked his hand link again, "but Ziggy says there's only a three percent chance that it is to go to town for help. On the other hand, there's a seventy-one percent probability that if you try, you'll collapse on the way and may die from complications of blood poisoning. Stay put, buddy."

"I need to get up _now_," Sam stated firmly.

"We've been through all this. You need to rest and keep off that leg," Marge insisted.

"Are you listening to me, Sam? You can't do this."

"No, I know, but I need to get up. I... uh... I need the bathroom." Sam blushed at the public admission.

Don and John took an arm each and helped pull him to his feet. John supported him again as he crossed the room. It seemed a much longer journey than it had the day before.

"Sam, I know we usually talk in the head but you didn't have to go to this much effort, I'm sure we could have managed." Al told him once the door was shut.

"I do need to talk to you, Al, but I also really do need to use the... uh... facilities." Sam nodded toward the toilet.

It was Al's turn to blush. "Oh, okay, Sam, sorry." He hovered awkwardly, not sure if Sam wanted to talk or take care of business first.

"They'll get worried if I'm in here too long, Al, so just turn around, okay?"

Al obeyed. "What are you thinking, Sam? You can't possibly walk into town so don't even suggest it."

"How far is it, Al?"

"Sam! No. I won't let you risk your life like that."

"I'm not _that_ stupid, Al. My judgment may be impaired by this head injury," both thought of his rash dive after Gil but neither mentioned it, "but I'm not suicidal. I need you to tell me how far it is and if Don can make it okay."

Al got Ziggy to examine the variables and predict the best course of action.

Back in the living room, Sam gave Don Kettler the benefit of 'Ken's local knowledge'. He went and pulled a map from the desk drawer and spread it out on the table to illustrate the route.

"It's a little over ten kilometers through the woods. The road is longer, more like sixteen kilometers, but of course you have a good chance of meeting someone en route to give you a ride. You may think that you're in pretty good shape but don't underestimate how much last night will have taken out of you. So, you need to reckon on it taking you at least two to three hours if you take the wood path. It can be pretty uneven in places and it isn't much traveled. I strongly recommend that you take the road. There's often a fair bit of traffic around lunch time on a Saturday so, if you wait an hour or so to leave, odds are you shouldn't have to go too far before someone picks you up."

"All sound advice," Don conceded, "but we're concerned about Jim and, frankly, we're even more concerned about you. I'll take the road," Don had seen the concern in Marge's eyes when Sam had warned him about the uneven and lonely woodland path. He wasn't about to give her cause for further worry, "but I'll be leaving right away. The sooner we can get medical help, the better."

"Go prepared," Sam ordered, "take plenty of water and..." He'd been standing for some time and trying to balance on one leg to ease the injured one. His head was protesting the effort of maintaining the perpendicular. Despite the fact he was leaning on the table, Sam suddenly swayed and almost fell.

"I'll see to it that Don's sorted but we need to get you off that leg, Mr. Barham. _Now_." Marge choreographed her family with silent commands. She was a formidable woman and Sam counted himself fortunate that she was in his corner. He soon found himself leaning on John Kettler again. He was being led toward Ken's bedroom.

"What...?" Sam began but didn't get far.

"No arguments, young man. Get into bed, you _must_ take it easy."

"But Joy needs to rest too. I can't be sure how much blood she lost..."

"She can rest just as well in a chair for now. Now I want you to get into that bed, and stay there."

His mouth had barely opened in protest when Marge held up a hand to silence him. "_**I**__f _we are still here tonight, we can discuss the sleeping arrangements again then. In the meantime, you are spending the day in your own bed, understood?"

Sam hesitated.

"Better do as she says, Sam!" Al advised, unable to suppress a grin.

"I mean it!" Marge ordered sternly so that Sam felt obliged to reply, "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled.

"You sound like my Momma." Sam told her.

"Good, then you'll do as you're told, won't you, son?" She winked at him.

Sam surrendered. Truth to tell, he hadn't the energy to do anything else.


	19. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Cape Peligro lighthouse**

**Saturday afternoon**

Sam had refused lunch much as he'd refused breakfast. He'd allowed Marge to make him tea at intervals, being still plagued by thirst. It had helped to warm him when he'd found himself shivering. He was running a higher temperature now and feeling really rough. Awareness came and went in a blur.

Marge had been unsure as to whether she should change his dressing and clean his wound again or leave it well alone lest she make it worse. As the young man had been tossing restlessly in febrile nightmares, she had thus far left it alone.

It was now a little after 2pm. Marge was praying that her husband had found help and that it was even now rushing back to them. The young man was obviously in urgent need of better care than she was able to give.

Her own family seemed to be faring much better. Joy was quite perky, if a little pale. Jim was complaining of being bored half to death but was obediently lying down and resting and reported that the dull nagging ache in his side had lessened.

John was making good progress with the radio; it seemed physically restored but as yet produced only static.

Marge busied herself going between them and making sure they wanted for nothing but most of her time was spent tending the unfortunate young man who'd risked his life to save theirs.

"_No! Please, Gil, don't..." _Sam was crying out in his sleep again. As the fever took hold, it opened the door to a series of nightmares that tormented his troubled brain. He was reliving the events of the previous night and early morning, his mind once again grappling with his failure to prevent the ultimate outcome. Marge listened to his cries and was all the more convinced that the old man had habitually beaten the poor boy.

Abruptly, he sat up in the bed, reaching out as if trying to grab someone and hold him back. "_NO!_" His eyes opened but he stared forwards unseeing as if still asleep.

Al had been keeping vigil too. He'd blessed Marge for her ministrations and kept watch while she checked on her brood. Now as she gently took hold of Sam and cuddled him, stroking his hair to calm him, Al tried to reach him with the soothing sound of his voice.

"It's okay, Sam. It's all over. It was just a dream. You're safe, Sam. Relax, buddy."

Sam's body gave a little jerk and both caretakers feared he was about to go into convulsions. Marge held him tighter, keening softly, "Hush now, it's okay."

"Gil?" Sam woke with a sharp intake of breath.

"It's all right, son, he can't hurt you any more. He's dead." Marge spoke softly, cradling his feverish head to her breast.

"He _shouldn't _be dead. I ought to have saved him."

"You did all you could. More. After what he did to you..." Marge reassured Sam.

"It wasn't his fault. He never beat me, I promise you. It was just the booze. He didn't know what he was doing." Sam insisted. Marge still looked unconvinced.

Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead. All this talking was making his head hurt worse than ever.

"Boy, am I thirsty!" Sam seemed surprised, as if this hadn't been a constant complaint for hours.

Ever attentive, Marge eased him back onto his pillows and promised to be 'right back' with more water, having realized that the jug she'd brought in earlier had already been emptied. Sam smiled his thanks.

Ziggy squealed at Al.

"The bucket of bolts has finally coughed up a theory as to why you're still here, Sam. I had thought maybe it was just so Beeks and Aurora could finish teaching Ken how to put on the makeup but he's well and truly mastered that now."

Sam looked confused and opened his mouth to ask for clarification but the fever was making it too hard to think straight. He decided not to bother. He needed to concentrate on the right answer, not the wrong one.

"I'm not even gonna go there, Al. What's Ziggy saying now?" As much as Sam wanted this leap over and done with, he hoped he wouldn't be required to do anything too arduous or too urgent. He was so darned tired and weak and - hah! under the weather summed it up he supposed - that he might just have to take a sickie for a couple of days before getting the latest job done.

Before Al could answer, Marge came back in with the water, which Sam drank from deeply. Don Kettler and a couple of paramedics followed her moments later.

"Oh, thank God!" breathed Al who, despite Sam's recent lucidity was becoming increasingly worried by Ziggy's reports of the leaper's vital signs, particularly the continually rising temperature.

A flurry of activity followed, at the end of which Sam and Jim found themselves strapped onto gurneys in the back of an ambulance headed for the Peligro County Hospital. A local deputy drove Marge and her other two children into town. Meanwhile Don did his best to explain to the sheriff and the local undertaker exactly what had happened to the lighthouse and its senior keeper before they too headed back to civilization.

**That evening**

Sam's leg wound had been stitched inside and out and redressed. His head now had a shaved patch slightly larger than the swelling behind his ear, enabling the doctor to clean and stitch the wound. He had been pumped full of antibiotics and put on a drip. As the drugs helped his body's natural defenses to ward of the bacterial infection that had invaded his system, his temperature at first continued to elevate.

Around an hour after admission to the hospital, Sam had been thrashing about in fever-induced insensibility, his temperature dangerously high. Al stood watching helplessly from the foot of the bed, squeezing his hand-link as if he could wring the infection out of Sam's body vicariously.

An attending nurse was mopping Sam's fevered brow with a tepid cloth, stroking his arm and talking to him in reassuring tones. She was certain that he could hear her, but as to whether he understood her words, that was anyone's guess.

Suddenly, Sam's body went rigid for a moment and then started jerking as it had before. The nurse tried to hold him down lest he hurt himself but he threw her off and partly sat up as he awoke with a violent start.

The nurse again took hold of him gently and lay him back down. He didn't make it easy for her, struggling panic-stricken against her restraining arms.

"Who is it? Who are you?" he queried frantically, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Barham, you're in the hospital, I'm Nurse Maxine Adler."

"I... I... Oh God! I c-can't s-s-see you! It's all just shadow, _I can't see_!" he wailed plaintively.

Al came close to shattering his hand-link like an eggshell. Luckily Ziggy's interface was hard-boiled. Forcing himself to keep his voice calm, Al reassured his friend, "I'm here, Sam. It's Al. I'm right here. Take it easy, buddy. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Al?" Sam breathed softly, "Help me! I… can't… see!"


	20. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Peligro County Hospital**

Nurse Adler hastily called for a doctor and a whole plethora of tests followed to determine the cause of this new development.

Ironically, the infection attacking Sam had not entered through the leg, thanks to the agonizing regime Sam had insisted on. The problem had arisen through the head wound, hidden from Marge's caring eye by Ken's shock of thick brown hair.

This was what the doctor told Mrs. Kettler when she looked in on Sam a short time later, assuring her that it was not her fault in any way. Much to Al's relief, he also told Marge that the blindness was liable to be temporary. As long as they could get the fever to break soon, meaning that the antibiotics were winning the war, there was every reason to hope that he would eventually make a full recovery. The loss of vision was due chiefly to the massive edema around the fracture, which was putting pressure on the occipital lobe. This was compounded by shock and the stress of prolonged physical exertion despite what was actually a serious injury. Temporary sight loss had also been known to be a manifestation of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in which case, symptoms may persist until the underlying psychological distress was addressed. In any event, the long-term prognosis was good.

A nurse was checking on him at half hourly intervals. He was in good hands. Mrs. Kettler was recommended to get some rest and come back in the morning. Since they had been unable to contact any family for Mr. Barham - Ken's parents had divorced when he was still a baby, his father was living out of state, and his mother had died a couple of years back - Marge was welcome to visit him when she came to see Jim, who was responding well to bed rest.

Al insisted in sitting on constant vigil. If Sam awoke again, he wanted to make sure he was there to provide a friendly voice. It was a lonely and exhausting watch and Beth was concerned by the strain that worry was putting Al under. As much as she shared Al's anxiety over Sam's condition, she didn't think it would help anyone to have Al rushed to the infirmary with a heart attack. She had Ziggy monitoring Al's vital signs as well as the Leapers.

Al was not mindful of the stress he was putting himself through. He was Sam's only anchor in this new storm and he wouldn't have dreamed of deserting the leaper during such a crisis. While Sam slept, Al prayed.

Several times over the next few hours Sam stirred. He complained often that his head hurt, which was to be expected. Mostly, he drifted in and out of consciousness and was not really aware of what was going on. A couple of times, he surfaced further and began to panic about his lack of vision, furiously rubbing at his eyes until restrained by the duty nurse. Al hastily reassured him that everything was under control, even though the words felt hollow. He kept promising Sam that he'd get his sight back soon, despite Ziggy's failure to confirm that eventuality. Al needed to believe it as much as Sam did.

Finally, Sam's temperature showed signs of breaking. He was perspiring and thrashing about less and, when he woke, he seemed a little more coherent. Al dared to hope that the crisis was past, until Sam's hesitant head movements sounded alarm bells.

Not waiting for the panic to mount, Al immediately assured Sam of his continued presence. "It's okay, Sam. I'm here. Everything's gonna be okay."

"Is it, Al?" Sam asked plaintively. His head turned in the direction of Al's voice but it was clear he wasn't seeing his friend. "Are you sure? Cos it's not okay now; I'm _still_ blind, Al. I'm... I'm sc-scared." Sam was fighting the urge to hyperventilate. His hands were trembling.

'_That makes two of us_,' thought Al, who'd felt sure that as soon as Sam's general condition began to improve so would his eyesight. He kept his fears from his voice through sheer willpower.

"Give it time, Sam. You need to rest. You've put your body through the wringer these last few days. It's bound to take a while to recover."

"Suppose it _doesn't_ get better, Al?" Sam insisted, his pale face reflecting his dread. "What if my sight _never_ comes back? Not even when I leap. How can I leap if I'm blind?" His voice was rising in pitch, his breath quickening.

That couldn't happen. It _mustn't _happen. Surely whoever or whatever was leaping Sam through time wouldn't allow it to happen? Al clasped his hands firmly together and silently prayed that it wouldn't be so.

"I don't wanna hear you talk like that, Sam." Al scolded gently. "We're gonna get you out of this one, just like every other tight spot you've been in. You hear me? We're gonna ride it out together Sam. I'm gonna stay right here just as long as you need me, okay?" Al pointed at the ground by his feet for emphasis but the gesture was wasted on Sam.

Al cursed again the circumstances that prevented him from laying a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder - all the more because Sam couldn't see him.

Al could well imagine how isolated and terrified the leaper was feeling. There had been times in 'Nam when he'd been thrown into a prison so totally dark that you couldn't see a hand before your face. The blackness had been palpable. There had been occasions when he'd been forced to march, bound and blindfolded, so disoriented that he'd felt every move could be his last. There was something about sensory deprivation that made a body feel vulnerable in a most particular and unnerving way. Al wasn't surprised that Sam professed himself to being scared.

Al's ability to help may be limited but he would do everything he could to make sure that Sam knew he was not alone. If comfort was all he could offer, he'd offer it by the bucket load. "Don't worry, Sam. I'm gonna stick to ya like glue, okay? It'll be fine, I promise. Just give it time."

"Thanks, Al," Sam forced a feeble smile. "I feel so... I dunno... so lost somehow. I don't know if I _**could**_ get through this without knowing you're there for me."

"Now don't go getting all mushy on me, Sam," Al chided, "Go back to sleep now, 'kay? The body heals faster when you sleep, remember?"

"Yes, sir, Doctor Calavicci!" Sam assented and seemed to settle.

A couple of minutes later, he questioned, "Al?"

"I'm here, Sam."

"You never told me..."

"What, Sam?"

"What Zig says I still need to do?"

Sam's new mission was not desperately urgent and in any case it needed input from Ken, which even now Bena was working on.

"What made you think of that now? Don't worry, Sam. It'll keep. Go to sleep."

Another couple of minutes passed.

"Al?"

"Yeah, Sam, what is it?"

"Nothing. Goodnight, Al."

"Goodnight, Sam."

Al knew perfectly well that Sam had just needed the confirmation that he truly wouldn't be left alone. However long it took, it was a promise that Al would honor.

**The Waiting Room**

**QLHQ**

Ken had soon mastered the application of the 'concealer' and had to admit that the effects were amazing.

Bena and Aurora had made him continue to practice long after he was confident in the procedure. They warned him that his memory may suffer from what they called 'the Swiss Cheese effect' and they wanted to be sure that he would not forget all he had learned. They also drilled him over and over in the names of the products he would need to purchase and which Oregon stores stocked them.

This time when Bena came in with the kit, she made Ken stand behind the clay head and apply it by looking in a mirror. After all, that was how he would eventually be doing it. As he proved to her that he was adept at the process, they chatted about other matters.

Ken had been so thrilled at the novelty of having a 'normal' appearance that he hadn't really paid too much attention to the other side of the coin – what was going on 'back home' at the lighthouse. They had told him that the man whose face he had been lent was 'putting something right' in his life but he hadn't questioned the whys and wherefores. Bena had told him it was part of a secret project and had seemed relieved at his lack of questions.

Now, she told him that the signs indicated he would be leaving them soon and there were some things they needed him to know.

She described how Gil had attacked 'Sam', the man who was posing as him, destroyed the lantern, and ultimately committed suicide.

"Is this Sam guy okay?" Ken felt guilty that he'd been injured. He felt ashamed when he realized that the 'putting something right' had been in part to save his own life. From what Bena told him, this Dr. Sam Beckett made a career of putting himself in danger to spare other people.

"He's in the hospital right now." Bena explained Sam's condition but reassured Ken that they were sure he'd be fine in the long term. She apologized that they would have to shave a patch of his head, "We can never be sure if the leapee will 'inherit' the things done to Sam. Sometimes they seem to, other times not. I hope for your sake that you don't. Still, a miracle cure for the injuries they might possibly swallow but miracle hair re-growth may be a stretch too far!

"At least if you do suffer from a Swiss-Cheese memory, Sam's head injury will be a cover for you. They'll put it down to the trauma."

Bena also told him about the Kettlers and how they believed Ken had been the one to save their lives.

"Why are you telling me all this now? You said there's a good chance I won't recall any of it when I get back."

"That's true. We need you to know the situation so that we can discuss your future. The lighthouse will definitely be automated now that Gil's gone..."

"He was a difficult man to get along with but it's still hard to take in that he's dead." Ken looked down at his hands, stained with the concealer. "I wouldn't wish that end on anyone."

"Sam did his best," Bena hastened to defend the leaper.

"I'm sure he did," Ken looked up at her, "I wasn't meaning to sound critical. I'm grateful to him. Really, I am. Will I get a chance to thank him?"

It made sense when he thought about it that the answer would be no. They had switched places when he arrived so it was only natural that they'd do a direct switch when he left.

"Thank him for me when he gets back then," Ken requested.

He was amazed when Bena informed him that Sam didn't get to come home.

"Poor guy. It doesn't sound like much of a life."

"It can be tough, that's for sure." Bena agreed. "It has its compensations though. Sam has been able to help a lot of people..."

"Who helps Sam?" Ken wanted to know.

It was a valid question. Bena was able to tell him that Al Calavicci was a big help to Sam in all sorts of ways.

"We sometimes need the leapee, that's you in this case, to tell us things to help Sam, though." Bena brought the conversation back to the matter in hand.

"Yeah, sorry, I got a bit sidetracked," Ken admitted. "I'll tell you anything I can."

"As I said, the lighthouse is going to be automated. That means you're going to need a new job. We believe Sam has to help you on the road to a new career. So what we want to know is..."

"What my ideal job would be?" Ken supplied.

"Basically, yes."

"That's easy. Now." Ken grinned, showing Bena the now perfectly disguised features of the clay model head.

"My options were limited when I looked like a freak. No, don't bother," he insisted, as Bena had been about to counter his self-image. "It's true the greatest appeal of Cape Peligro was the isolation. No need to make apologies or excuses for the way I looked. I guess you'll be predicting that I want to make a living from my art. I'm not going to be falsely modest. I'm pretty good but I'm not _that_ good. I have no ambition to be a starving artist in some garret somewhere. I could've tried that. Maybe even sold just enough of my work to keep from _total_ starvation." Ken sniggered as Bena smiled at his scenario.

It was more or less what Ziggy was currently predicting for him, a fate she felt sure Sam could help him improve upon.

"So," Bena encouraged, "now that you don't have to stand out? What's the dream career?"

"My art is an outlet - a form of self expression and a form of escapism." Ken confessed, "but I also love it because one of the few people to accept me as I was happened to be my art teacher. I loved him for treating me like one of the class and for taking an interest in me for my talent, not my face."

Bena put two and two together and immediately knew what Ken was going to say.

"You'd like to teach art." It was a statement, not a question.

Ken nodded in confirmation of her assessment. "I don't think I could ever afford to train, though. I'm going to have to start off with some low-grade job just to get enough to get by on. I'm gonna have to find someplace else to live too. I'd have to sell an awful lot of paintings to fund the course and, even if I _could_ line up the buyers, I'd be too busy painting them to attend classes!" His eyes reflected the sadness that his dream was still out of reach.

"I've read your personal file," Bena smiled encouragingly, "and I've talked to you quite a bit these last couple of days. I'd say that academically you should have no trouble getting onto a University course to get a Degree in Education."

"Probably not." Ken conceded, "But what's the point if I can't afford the fees?"

"Leave that to Sam," Bena told him with a wink. "I guess that must be what he still needs to achieve before he hands you your life back."

"What's he gonna do, back a sure fire winning horse for me?" Ken asked skeptically.

"Nothing so immoral, I assure you," Bena promised. "Just trust Sam. I have a feeling your ambition will soon be well within your grasp."


	21. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Peligro County Hospital**

**Next morning**

By the early hours of Monday, Sam had drifted into a more natural, restful sleep.

Al continued to maintain his vigil, even though the leaper now slept undisturbed. This time Al made no attempt to rouse him as he had back at the lighthouse. Sam obviously needed to rest. So too did Al, yet he categorically refused Beth's pleas to retire to bed for a couple of hours. Eventually, he did concede that he would doze in the large comfortable chair that had been installed in the Imaging Chamber on the condition that Ziggy would monitor Sam every second and wake Al at the first sign that the leaper was stirring. He was not prepared to cause Sam even one moment of unnecessary anxiety.

Marge looked in on Sam from early in the morning too. It had started as sheer gratitude but she was finding that she'd developed a strong maternal affection for this young man.

The Kettlers had taken rooms in the local hotel but Marge had been up early and at the hospital as soon as visitors were allowed. Having satisfied herself that Jim had slept well and was recovering satisfactorily, she had hurried to check on Ken Barham's condition.

"He just _has_ to get his sight back," she told the attending physician in a tone of voice that made it almost an order. "He's an artist, you know, and a very good one too."

She had seen some of his artwork when tidying the lighthouse after Gil's blitz. It had been heartbreaking to see that the old man had ripped up most of the sketches in his drunken fury. Some had escaped intact though, and when she had taken up temporary residence in Ken's room, she had fixed them to the wall where she could see them when she woke.

"Mrs. Kettler?" The sound of voices had penetrated Sam's slumbers. His own sounded confused and tinged with apprehension.

"Hush, it's okay. Go back to sleep, son." Marge soothed, stroking his face, now mercifully not burning up with fever, and gently squeezing his hand.

"Jim?" Sam's leaper's instinct told him that her presence at the hospital could signify a relapse for her son.

"Don't worry, Sam," Al, instantly awake himself, relayed the information that he knew Sam needed to hear and which, for once, was rapidly forthcoming. "Jim's recovering well. Ziggy says he's out of danger now."

"He's doing great," Marge assured him, "thanks to you. We're more worried about you at the moment. Anything you need, let the nurses know and we'll see what we can arrange. Okay?"

"Thank you, but all I need right now is to see again. I _hate_ being trapped in the dark like this." He gripped a handful of the sheet in his fist, reflecting the tension he was feeling. "I've never told anyone before, but I've always had the deepest dread of going blind. I'd rather lose both my legs."

"Aww, Sam," Al put in, "you should'a told me, buddy. That time when you were the pianist, you never let on."

"There, there, it's going to be okay," Marge patted the back of Sam's hand so that he relaxed his grip on the sheet. "Would you like me to sit with you until you fall asleep again? I can imagine that the time must drag endlessly being alone."

"He's not alone," put in Al defensively, though she couldn't hear him, "but feel free to have her stay too, Sam. I won't be offended." Far from it, Al welcomed having reinforcements.

"That's very kind, Mrs. Kettler," Sam clasped her hand in his as if to prevent her changing her mind. He was truly grateful for Al's presence but feeling the warm touch of another human being was like feeling the earth firm beneath your feet when you thought you had been falling into a quagmire.

"Please, call me Marge," she told Sam, settling herself comfortably in the chair by the bed. She shot the doctor a look that warned him she would by no means tolerate being asked to leave.

The doctor checked Sam's medication, the status of his drip bag and that it was feeding into him correctly. He made a note on the patient's chart of his reduced temperature and current status and then departed.

Marge whispered soft reassurances to Sam, all the while holding his hand and stroking his arm to let him know she was there, until he drifted back to sleep.

Once she was sure he was peaceful she stood up and planted a tender kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well. God bless, young man. Be better soon." Marge breathed softly and turned to leave.

"Thanks, Mrs. K." Al told her, appreciative of anything that helped to keep Sam calm. "I'll take it from here."

He knew she couldn't hear him and had no idea he was there but he said it anyway.

**Monday afternoon**

"_Al!_" Sam called for the third time to his softly snoring friend.

"Wha...?" Al had finally nodded off in his chair, worn out by the long hours of being on constant duty. He quickly roused himself. "I'm right here, Sam. Sorry. How you feeling?"

"Leg's still sore, head's still pounding, and I ache all over. I'm pitifully weak and still unbelievably tired. But never mind me, Al... _you_ look exhausted. You should get to bed and get some proper sleep buddy!"

"I'm okay," Al insisted stubbornly, "I promised you I'd stay until..."

Al did a classic double take, sitting forward in his chair and then getting up and leaning over his friend.

"Wait a minute... **what** did you say?"

Sam smiled - a huge goofy grin. "I said 'you look exhausted'. Actually, it'd be more accurate to say you look a wreck."

"Are you trying to tell me..?"

"Yeah, Al. I can see you. You're still a bit blurred round the edges but I'm not blind any more. I can see again!"

Al's face broke into a huge grin of his own. "That's great!"

He still couldn't quite believe it, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"That's so clichéd." Sam reprimanded, "but just to humor you... three."

"Oh, thank God, Sam. You have no idea how relieved I am..."

"_You're_ relieved? How do you think _I _feel, Al?" Sam let out a little embarrassed laugh. "I guess I was really freaking out there for a while, wasn't I? Thanks for sticking it out with me, Al."

"That's what I'm here for, buddy." Al replied modestly, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"Yeah, well, now you better get outta here, pal. Even though you're the most wonderful sight in the world to me right now, you look absolutely terrible. So, Dr. Beckett is prescribing a good long sleep in the comfort of your own bed, capiche? Just tell me what I need to do and I'll take care of it, okay?"

"You're as bad as Beth," Al muttered.

"Yeah? Well, that could be because we both care about you, Al."

Al conceded defeat. He told Sam what they'd learned about Ken's aspirations for a new career and how he couldn't afford to sign up for training.

"The Kettlers must be loaded, Sam." Al suggested, "That yacht would have cost a packet. Maybe they'll be so grateful you saved their lives that they'll stump up the moolah."

"They probably would, Al, but I can't just ask them for it. Thanks for the lead, though. Now off to bed with you."

Al called up the Imaging Chamber door and was about to step through it when Sam called to him.

"Al!"

The hologram instantly turned around, "You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah. Never mind. Goodnight, Al."

"Goodnight, Sam."

"Sleep well, Al. That's doctor's orders."

Al gave him a swift salute in acknowledgement and stepped back to the future.

The siren call of silky sheets and soft pillows could be ignored no longer.

While Al was sleeping peacefully in the gentle embrace of his beloved Beth, Sam had a busy afternoon. Once the doctors discovered that his sight had been restored, he'd been put through another barrage of tests. His progress in all areas of recovery was most encouraging, although he was cautioned not to over exert himself.

The local sheriff arrived and was given permission to take his statement. He needed to corroborate what Don had told them since Ken had been the only actual witness to the events surrounding the criminal damage done to the lighthouse. Sam had told them everything, apart from the elements where he had foreknowledge of events, of course. He confirmed most of what Mr. Kettler had said, but insisted emphatically that Gil Burgess had never beaten Ken. The only reason Gil had hurt him at all that night was that he was under the influence of alcohol and not responsible for his actions. Even if Gil had lived, he would not have pressed charges for his injuries.

When he was satisfied that he had all the information he needed, the sheriff thanked Sam and told him to be sure and rest well. He congratulated the young man on his 'heroic rescue' of the Kettler family and hinted that the Mayor's office may be in touch in due course. Sam modestly denied that he deserved any recognition for his deeds. "I was just doing my job," he insisted.

Finally alone, Sam had settled down to sleep a little more. It seemed incredible that he should still feel so desperately tired when he'd been inactive for 24 hours or more. Yet the doctor in him recognized the strain his body had been under as it fought the infection and injuries, and he knew he still had a way to go before his strength was fully restored.

Even so, he was amazed that he slept through the entire night without waking.

**Tuesday morning**

Scarcely had he finished the breakfast he'd developed a real appetite for when Sam again found himself with more visitors.

First to arrive was Al, looking refreshed and relaxed. Al mischievously indicated that he'd received some 'therapy' from Beth, which Sam begged him not to expand upon. He then commented that Sam, too, looked much improved, having lost the awful pallor that had marred his features the previous day. Further conversation was precluded when Sam's other guests arrived.

Jim Kettler was being discharged into his mother's capable care and the family had come to fetch him. They decided to look in on their savior on the way out.

Marge professed herself delighted to hear that he could see them once more. She reiterated her claim that it would have been a wicked waste of an incredible artistic talent had he remained visually impaired. Hearing this and seeing the group gathered together at his bedside, gave Sam an idea.

"How long are you folks staying in town?" he inquired.

"Jim's been told he shouldn't travel for a couple more days," Marge told him and Sam nodded in agreement of the caution. "So we thought we'd stick around for the remainder of our vacation. Did we tell you the cruise was to celebrate our 25th anniversary?"

"To be honest, I don't recall," Sam admitted but was forgiven instantly. "Happy Anniversary. I'm sorry your celebrations were so drastically interrupted."

"We count ourselves blessed at the outcome," Don told him, "You gave us the greatest gift we could have received - you gave us back our lives."

"I'd like to give you another, if I may," Sam began.

They merely looked at him questioningly, not knowing how to respond.

"When I'm better..." In other words, when he'd leaped and the real Ken was back, for he felt sure the young man would honor what he was proposing, "I'd like to do a family portrait for you."

"Oh, Don, wouldn't that be wonderful?" Marge enthused.

"We'd love to have you paint our portrait, Mr. Barham," Don agreed, "but we couldn't possibly accept it as a gift. We owe you so much already, we can never repay you."

Sam was sure that Al was right. They would willingly have paid for Ken's University education. He didn't think Ken would have felt comfortable accepting a simple handout, though.

"Please, call me Ken. You don't owe me a thing," Sam maintained, "but if you insist on paying me a modest commission for your portrait, I can use it to start off my college fund."

"Good idea, Sam. Ken says he'll go along with anything you arrange and this sounds perfect!"

"College fund?" Marge picked up the cue as he'd felt sure she would. Sam explained about Ken's need for a new career and how he was going to have to find a temporary job and save hard to fulfill his ambition of training to teach art.

Marge pulled Don to one side and they exchanged words in excited whispers.

Al slipped a little closer and eavesdropped on their conversation, his grin broadening with every word he heard.

"Sam, you're a genius! I mean, I know you have a genius IQ, but..."

Sam shot him a look that suggested 'when you find yourself in a hole, stop digging'.

Don and Marge turned back to the young man in the hospital bed, smiling.

"I have a proposition for you, Ken, and I want you to hear me out."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

"Do you know _where_ you'd like to study?"

Al put the question through Ziggy, who relayed the answer from Ken.

"Beaverbrook Art College, if I can get in. The fees are about $5-6K a year, though, and places are well sought after. It may be fairly local but it's one of the best in the State."

"Right." Don made a mental note. "Well you've missed enrollment for this semester. You could try for a January start but I'd recommend waiting until next year."

"It'll take a lot longer than _that_ to save up the money." Sam put in, "I have to get myself somewhere to live too, since the lighthouse was a 'live-in' post.

"You promised to hear me out." Don chastised.

"Sorry. Please go on."

"My proposition is this. I own a chain of hotels, which are very successful as you may surmise from the ability to afford our yacht. They could always do with some positive publicity, though. I'd like to hire you initially to do some sketches of our holdings for the brochures. In addition, I want to commission you to paint some local scenes to put up in each of the hotels – in reception, in the bedrooms, in the dining rooms, all over basically. It will mean a lot of work and should keep you pretty busy. You'll stay in my hotels as my guest and all materials will be provided, but you'll have to live on a frugal wage, no spare cash for luxuries. Meanwhile, I'll put $1,000 a month into your college fund. That will get you started. If I'm suitably impressed next summer, there may be a bonus too. Then I want you on a retainer so that if I need any additional artwork, you'll produce it for me during your holidays – Christmas, spring break, summer vacation. I undertake to pay you enough to cover your tuition and board for the duration of your course, on condition that you get good grades and give me first option on anything 'independent' you produce over and above the hotel work. Do we have a deal?"

"That's a remarkably generous offer," Sam began.

"If it's too much of a commitment, I may just have to pay you, say $25K up front for that family portrait!" Don countered. "I must warn you, young man, I'm accustomed to getting my own way in business deals. I'm not in the habit of taking 'no' for an answer. Not to mention the fact that what Marge wants, Marge gets, and my wife wants to sponsor your talent. You wouldn't deny my wife the opportunity to 'discover' an up-and-coming young artist, would you, Ken?"

"If you put it like that," Sam and Al exchanged winks, "then I'd be delighted to accept. I won't let you down, Mr. Kettler, Mrs. Kettler."

As he made this assurance, Sam looked to Al to confirm its validity.

"He doesn't, Sam. Ken works really hard and produces some fabulous artwork. It becomes the signature feature of Kettler's hotels. He never makes a fortune from his art but he lives comfortably. He goes on to graduate top of his class. He's been teaching 20 odd years now and his students love him. He's fostered many a budding talent. He becomes good friends with the Kettlers and is best man at Jim's wedding. In fact, he recently did a new portrait with the grandchildren for Don and Marge's Golden Wedding Anniversary. You did it, buddy - another triumph over adversity."

Don held out his hand to seal the deal and, as Sam shook it, he felt a familiar tingling sensation. Ken was not the only one about to embark on a new job...


End file.
